Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yo ho, haul together, hoist the colors high.

Heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die.

"What do you mean he's gone?" Porthos's voice was like an explosion in the small room. The man he was questioning leaped back in fear, staring at him with wide eyes.

"Porthos," Aramis said quietly, crossing the room to take a position between his lover and the harbormaster. "It's hardly his fault the man's boat arrived."

He sensed the frustration rolling off the larger man, but after a moment Porthos sighed and grunted out, "My apologies."

Aramis understood his frustration. What should have been an easy mission to Le Havre to pick up an escaped English assassin who had plotted against the king was turning into a complicated quandary. The harbormaster in Le Havre had just informed them that their man had left yesterday under the name Reynard, though his real name was unknown.

Emboldened by Aramis's defense, the man crowded forward, jabbing a finger at Porthos. "I have rights!" he said, his voice tremulous. "You can't just come in here and bully me!"

He pushed against Aramis, jostling his still healing ribs, and Aramis failed to entirely disguise the slight hiss of pain that escaped through his teeth. Porthos's face settled into something resembling thunder, and the man scurried backwards again, bravery vanishing.

"We did not come to bully you," Athos said amicably, cutting Porthos off before he could begin threatening the cowering idiot. "Can you tell us where his ship was bound, and when the next will depart?"

The man was still watching Porthos like a mouse watches a prize ratter, but he answered Athos's questions. "A Coruña. It's a city on the Spanish coast."

"Spain?" D'Artagnan asked, looking over from his position guarding the entrance. "Why Spain?"

Athos was staring at the harbormaster, a crease between his eyebrows betraying his puzzlement. "I don't know," he said evenly. "But I suppose that's what we need to find out."

Aramis sensed the protest before Porthos voiced it and hissed, "Not here," inclining his head toward the listening dock master.

"And the next ship?" Athos prompted.

The man looked at him at last, a look of genuine regret crossing his mousey features. "There isn't one. There's not another ship bound for Spain for three days, and that one's going to San Sebastián."

"Could we charter one?" Athos asked patiently.

"Not around these parts," the man said glumly. "Trade's been poor. No one wants to risk being seized by an English privateer."

Athos cursed softly under his breath, the first outward sign of his impatience. "Thank you for your assistance," he said formally. "We'd best be on our way."

He led the way out into the cold drizzle, heading towards the dry space under a nearby bridge. Aramis could sense the frustrated belligerence rolling off of Porthos even as they walked and fought the urge to sigh.

"We're not going to Spain," Porthos said as soon as they were under cover. Athos raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

"Aren't we?"

"No," Porthos ground out. "This was supposed to be a short, easy mission. Aramis can't travel all the way to Spain."

"I am right here, you know," Aramis said mildly, trying in vain to insert himself into the conversation. Both Musketeers ignored him, and D'Artagnan shot him a sympathetic look.

"Treville told us to do, and I quote, 'whatever it takes' to fetch the assassin," Athos said patiently. "We will find a ship to take us to Spain and bring back our man."

"So Aramis can take even longer to heal?" Porthos demanded angrily. "We're going back to Paris and telling Treville we lost him."

Aramis wanted to beat him about the head with one of the fish lying in a nearby barrel. He knew Porthos was just being overprotective because he loved him, but he was beginning to feel smothered. He was almost completely healed from the wounds he'd received when he was captured on their last mission, and he was more than capable of completing his duties.

Still, it was difficult to blame Porthos, especially when he knew his lover still blamed himself for the events that had led to Aramis's capture. Even so, he couldn't keep coddling him forever. A man had to put his foot down somewhere.

"Porthos!" he said forcefully, finally drawing the larger man's attention. "We are going to Spain. It seems the choice comes down to whether we ride and risk losing our man entirely, or find a way to sail after him. The latter sounds more pleasant to me."

It was low bit of manipulation, but he caught Porthos wince at the reminder that riding a horse had been rather painful for Aramis with ribs that were only mostly recovered from being broken.

Surely sailing would be less painful than bumping up and down on a horse.

"You're not ready," Porthos sighed, some of the anger draining out of him. "Treville should never have sent us."

"But he did," D'Artagnan pointed out unhelpfully.

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be," Aramis said, shrugging. "We're Musketeers. This is what we do." He could see concern warring with loyalty in Porthos's eyes.

"I promise I'll tell you if it gets to be too much," he added, and though they both knew he was probably lying, Porthos nodded his acceptance.

"Now that's all sorted out," Athos cut in wryly, "Perhaps we ought to consider our next move."

"If we're to follow this Reynard, we'll need to charter a ship. So we should probably go search the taverns for a captain willing to take us," Aramis said. Athos nodded.

"Aramis, Porthos, you check the taverns to the north. D'Artagnan and I will head south. There must be someone in this city willing to risk the privateers."

Athos and D'Artagnan headed back out into the drizzle, but Porthos grabbed Aramis's arm before he could leave, swinging him back against the wall and stepping close to him.

"You sure you're alright?" he asked quietly. There was no belligerence in his voice now, just concern. Aramis smiled reassuringly.

"If I wasn't, could I have managed what I did last night?" he asked slyly, enjoying the way Porthos's eyes darkened instantly.

"Probably not," Porthos chuckled, voice warming.

"I swear to you, I can do this," Aramis told him firmly. "I would not have agreed to it otherwise."

"I know," Porthos sighed. "I just worry."

"I know you do," Aramis chuckled, shaking his head. "But if I could handle that, I can handle this. That took far more stamina and, ah, flexibility than this is likely to."

Porthos grinned invitingly at him. "Maybe we ought to try that again, just so I'm really sure you're ready," he teased. Before Aramis had a chance to come up with a witty retort Porthos had dipped his head the last few inches, warm lips finding Aramis's own as he crowded Aramis against the wall.

A noise from overhead broke them apart far too soon, and they froze, listening. But it was only a passerby on the bridge overhead.

"Let's hope Athos takes rooms in an inn for the night," Aramis said, flashing a lazy smile at his lover. Porthos echoed the expression, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

"But for now, duty calls," Aramis sighed, pushing Porthos away and heading out into the rain before he could change his mind.

A few hours later they were back under the bridge, soaked and discouraged. Aramis's ribs and shoulder ached abominably, the cold creeping along his scars. They hadn't found a single captain willing to risk the privateer's cannons to take them to Spain.

And from the look on D'Artagnan's face when he and Athos finally rejoined them, neither had they.

"Nothing?" Athos asked tiredly. Porthos shook his head.

"What now?" D'Artagnan asked, shaking his head like a dog.

"We need to travel to another port city, I suppose," Athos sighed. "Somewhere we might find a boat."

"We need to take a ship, not a boat, Athos," Porthos corrected.

"There's a difference?" D'Artagnan asked, sounding confused.

"Difference or not, it doesn't matter if we can't find either," Aramis pointed out. "I doubt the captains in Calais or Cherbourg will be any less frightened of privateers." He winced when Porthos stiffened slightly at the word Calais.

"And we don't have the funds to charter one if all the captains are afraid," Athos added. "We haven't enough of a bribe to overcome their fear."

Porthos shook his head, the beginning of a grin on his handsome features.

"Nah, I said we should take a ship."

The rain muffled his footsteps as he stole down the dock to where he'd agreed to meet the others once he'd chosen the ship. He could see two shadows waiting under the overhang in the alley as he stalked silently over.

"Where's Athos?" he asked, raising his voice over the pounding rain. The drizzle had turned into a downpour.

D'Artagnan leapt a foot in the air at the sound of his voice, and Porthos heard Aramis chuckle under his breath.

"He went to check that the harbormaster was asleep and fetch the navigational equipment. We left the horses in the stables with instructions to keep them fed and cared for until a Musketeer arrived to claim them."

Porthos nodded, already running through the plan in his head. "Good, that's good."

"Did you find a good boa- ship?" Aramis asked.

"I found a real beauty," Porthos chuckled. "Small, sleek, well-kept. It's a real shame to have to steal 'er."

"Treville will see that the owners are well-compensated." Athos materialized behind D'Artagnan, making the lad jump again.

"Got everything?" Porthos asked, nodding at the burlap sack in Athos's hands.

"Three days' worth of provisions, maps, a compass, and some odd looking device that was with the compass. I assumed it was important."

"Right. That's good. There should be fresh water on the dock that we can load on the ship, too." He looked around. "Let's go, then."

He led the way down the darkened dock, eyes scanning the ships as they passed for watchers. He saw no one, and it wasn't long before they reached the ship he'd picked out. 'Madeleine' had been lovingly painted on the narrow bow.

"It's not very big," D'Artagnan whispered doubtfully as they crouched behind a stack of crates, checking for sentries.

"It's not a warship," Porthos retorted. "It's built like a flute, but on a smaller scale. Only needs a few men for a crew, see? Probably a short-distance trader. Lot's o' cargo space."

"It's only got four cannons!" D'Artagnan protested. "What if we're attacked by privateers?"

Porthos shot him a grin. "We'll outrun 'em."

"What if we can't outrun them?"

"We'll be swimming with the fishes, I suppose."

"Are you sure this thing can handle the open ocean?" Athos eyed the small ship with its two masts doubtfully.

"It could take you to the colonies if you had a mind."

"I hate to interrupt the lesson, but shouldn't we get moving?" Porthos glanced at Aramis and nodded.

"We'll need to get these barrels on once the ship is secure." He gestured to the barrels of water that formed part of their hiding place. He was about to rise and lead the way over to the ship when when Athos held up a hand.

"Wait. We need to leave our uniforms."

As one, the others turned shocked gazes on him. D'Artagnan overcame his surprise first.

"Leave our uniforms?" he asked in a tone of horror, glancing down at his sodden cloak and still pristine shoulder guard. "Why?"

"We may not be at war with Spain, but there is enough tension between our countries that we will be safer if we cannot be identified as King's Musketeers." Athos was already stripping his pauldron away with care.

Porthos glanced down at his shoulder guard, an unpleasant feeling in his stomach. He hated being stripped of his identity as a Musketeer, but Athos was right: they would be too easily identified. He carefully removed it and bundled it in his cloak, noting the others doing the same.

"I'll hide them," D'Artagnan murmured, clutching his bundle fiercely to his chest. It must be hitting him hard to give up his shoulder guard when he'd received it so recently.

Athos nodded and gestured for the others to hand over the cloaks. "Meet us on the ship when you've hidden them," he ordered. "I've left a note at the dock master's telling the owner to write to Captain Treville for reparations. Once we get the ship ready, we'll come back for the water and head out before dawn."

"We've got to move quickly or we'll lose the tide," Porthos added. Athos glanced at him before nodding, accepting his instruction.

As well he should. Porthos knew the seas better than any of them. They hadn't called him Porthos the Pirate for nothing.

"Lead on." Athos stepped back, gesturing for Porthos to take command. He stared at him in surprise for a moment before coming to his senses and issuing quiet orders to board the small trading ship.

There wasn't a soul on the dock, and Porthos was grateful for the deluge keeping the citizens of Le Havre in their homes that night.

Aramis and Athos followed him up the gangway and paused, waiting for further instructions. Porthos had been expecting a night crew, but it seemed there was no one on board.

Probably seeking shelter from the rain in a nearby tavern.

"Quick! We need to loose the foresail," he murmured, directing Athos toward the foremast. "You'll need to climb into the rigging and release it."

Athos turned and gave him a look that said, quite clearly, there is no way in hell I am climbing up there.

"We need the sail to leave the harbor."

Athos continued to stare.

"Well I can't send Aramis!"

No response.

Porthos growled in frustration. "Fine, you can start undoing the mooring lines." He shoved Athos toward the port side. "Aramis, find D'Artagnan and get those barrels aboard. Once this sail comes down, we need to be ready to go."

He quickly swarmed up the foremast himself, years of sailing coming back to him in a heartbeat as he quickly freed the square sail.

He rappelled easily back down to the deck, noting that Aramis and D'Artagnan were rolling the last of the barrels up the gangway.

"Athos, are we free?" he called over as he quickly tied the sail down, doing the work of three crew members in his haste.

"I think so?" Athos sounded anything but certain. Porthos cursed as he ran over to make sure they weren't about to snap the mast straining against unreleased mooring lines.

Thankfully Athos had indeed managed to free them, and they were already beginning to drift away from the dock. Porthos had chosen this ship because it was close to the end of the dock, and because it was small enough that he could steer it straight from the harbor with little difficulty.

"Store those barrels midship and lash them down securely," he called, careful to keep his voice low in case the dock master or someone else happened to wander out to the docks.

He received nothing but blank looks in return. He sighed heavily. "Put the barrels in the middle of the ship, between the masts, and tie them down."

Athos appeared at his elbow, sodden hat dripping. "Have you got that compass?" Porthos asked quietly.

Athos nodded and pulled out the instrument. "We need to head southwest for now until we're clear of the shoreline, otherwise they might think they can come after us. Can you read those charts you stole?"

"I can," Athos replied. Porthos thanked God for small blessings.

"Then find a heading for us. Figure out the best course to A Coruña. Ship this size, with no cargo, can probably make about eleven knots, I'd wager. Maybe even fifteen with a good wind." Porthos watched a flicker of incomprehension cross Athos's face before he nodded and disappeared below decks.

Aramis and D'Artagnan staggered across the slippery deck to join him at the wheel. He noticed D'Artagnan shooting interested looks up the rigging to the miniscule crow's nest and smiled slightly.

At least one of them wasn't hopeless.

The mouth of the harbor was barely visible in the darkness, and Porthos was only a passable helmsman, but he managed to steer them through without too much trouble. He nudged D'Artagnan.

"Go get Athos!" His voice seemed overly loud in a sudden lull as the rain lessened to a drizzle once more. "We'll need to lower the mainsail and raise the jibs!"

D'Artagnan scrambled toward the hatch that led to the cabin where Athos had taken refuge. Porthos glanced over at Aramis, who was shivering in the rain.

"Go below after this and dry off," he told him quietly, concern spiking through him when Aramis nodded without arguing.

"Is the floor meant to be moving so much?" He sounded rather ill. Before Porthos had a chance to ask if all was well, D'Artagnan returned, towing an irritated Athos.

"Right. D'Artagnan, I need you up in the tops to loose the mainsail. When it drops down, Athos and Aramis can tie it off before we raise the jibs in the bowsprit."

Three blank looks met his orders.

"Was that French?" Aramis asked, looking alarmed.

"None of us know anything about sailing!" D'Artagnan's voice was high with worry.

Porthos fought the urge to curse. "Athos, take the wheel. Just keep heading straight until I get this sorted."

He grabbed D'Artagnan and dragged the lad along to assist him, casting his eyes heavenward in an exasperated prayer.

Lord, don't let them sink this ship.

Chapter Text

He could see the port of A Coruña far ahead, Spanish flags waving in the bright sunshine. Porthos let out a sigh of relief; he honestly hadn't been sure they'd make it this far. It was only a two day voyage, three if the weather was poor, but it was a voyage with two utterly inept companions and a third who caused more trouble than he solved.

Even now D'Artagnan was swinging wildly through the rigging, no doubt tangling lines that Porthos had only just finished straightening. He sighed. He couldn't fault the lad for enthusiasm, not when he'd been much the same during his first voyage.

At least D'Artagnan was enjoying himself.

Athos appeared on deck rarely, leaving his darkened cabin only to consult with Porthos on the best course to take and what they would do once they reached the city. The rest of his time was spent below decks drinking through the three bottles of wine he had somehow smuggled aboard and refusing to share.

Aramis came up only to empty his stomach over the side.

Porthos loved the sea, loved being back on a ship with the wind in his face and the spray on his skin, but he'd give it up to get Aramis back on dry land.

To say Aramis had not taken well to sailing would be an understatement. Porthos had never seen anyone being as violently ill as Aramis had been these last two days. He could barely keep water down and had even refused Athos's grudging offer of wine.

He also couldn't seem to find his sea legs, staggering every time the deck rolled. Might've been better to take horses after all, Porthos thought grimly, correcting their course by a few degrees to the east.

Athos appeared at his shoulder, somehow managing to move totally silently even on a ship rocking in a three foot swell.

"What are you doing up here?"

Athos shot him an irritated look. "I'm running out of wine." The bottle in his hand was only half full.

Porthos choked back a laugh at the mixture of anger and dejection on Athos's face. Athos glanced around. "Where's D'Artagnan?"

"Where do you think?" Porthos chuckled, pointing up at the crow's nest, where D'Artagnan was perched.

Athos rolled his eyes heavenward, not even glancing at the boy. "I don't have enough wine for this."

He turned to leave, but Porthos stuck out a hand to stop him. "Wait. I actually need you to go change the angle of the jib."

Athos looked at him. "The one in the front," Porthos sighed. "Just untie it and swing the boom to port and tie it down again."

He motioned with his hands, imitating the proper angle, and Athos set off with a determined expression, leaving the wine bottle with Porthos in an act of surprising trust.

Two minutes later he was somehow hanging half upside down from the rigging above the boom, with D'Artagnan scrambling towards him to cut him loose.

Porthos was doubled over the wheel, laughing so hard his vision was beginning to blur. "How did you even do that?" he called, amazed. "You didn't even need to go up in the rigging!"

Athos fell to the deck in an ungraceful heap, shaking off D'Artagnan's offer of help. His face was set in hard lines as he stalked over to Porthos, though the effect was ruined by the fact that his hat was tilted crazily on his head.

"Next time, send him," he hissed, jabbing a finger at D'Artagnan, swinging from the robes like a monkey. "I handle the maps. The maps!" Without another word he turned and disappeared inside, snatching his bottle on the way.

D'Artagnan dropped easily beside Porthos, a wicked grin on his face. "Nice one," Porthos chortled.

"He didn't even see the trap until he stepped in it!" D'Artagnan's face was the picture of glee as he cackled.

"Trap?" came a weary voice from behind them, and Porthos glanced back to see Aramis clambering out of the hatch that led down to the captain's cabin. He had insisted Aramis take it.

D'Artagnan immediately moved to take the wheel, allowing Porthos to step hurriedly to Aramis's side, though Aramis pulled back before he could offer his support.

"I'm fine, Porthos," he said, waving off his concern.

"Yeah, you look it," D'Artagnan called helpfully. Porthos shot a glare at him.

Aramis looked terrible. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin had a grayish, waxy quality. Despite Aramis's protests that he was just paranoid, Porthos was sure he had lost weight. He was struck again by how glad he was that the port was in sight.

"Now, what was this about a trap?" Aramis asked, some of his old bravado back in his voice as he walked unsteadily towards the wheel. Porthos did his best not to hover too blatantly.

"I set a trap for Athos," D'Artagnan sniggered. "Caught him up in the rigging."

Aramis raised an eyebrow, looking impressed. "I would've liked to see that." He smiled for a moment, and then the ship hit a particularly high swell and he paled again.

Porthos hurriedly stepped out of the way, leaving the path to the rail clear, but Aramis shook his head in irritation. "Not going to be sick," he said, disgust twisting his handsome features. "Don't think I've got anything left to bring up."

Porthos reached out and ran a hand soothingly across his shoulders. Aramis leaned into the touch, accepting the offered comfort.

"We'll reach the port soon," Porthos promised, smiling at the look of relief that flashed across Aramis's face.

"Can I steer it in to port, Porthos?" D'Artagnan asked excitedly.

"First of all, you call ships 'her.' And secondly, absolutely not." He watched the boy's face fall and added, "You can steer until we reach the mouth of the harbor though. Call me up when it's in sight."

D'Artagnan nodded, eyes already glued to the approaching port. Porthos shook his head fondly and caught Aramis's fleeting smile. Turning, he led the way back below decks to collect his kit before they reached land.

Most of his things were still packed in the corner of the captain's cabin, since he'd spent every waking moment above, handling the ship, and only slept when it had become absolutely necessary. He'd woken up half-convinced that Athos might have steered them into a reef in his absence.

Aramis's things were mostly scattered on the floor near the small bed, within easy reach. He packed them up efficiently while Porthos changed out of his sea-stained shirt. When he turned around, Aramis was watching him oddly.

"What? Have I got blood on my shirt or something?"

"No, it's just…" Aramis hesitated, and for a second worry burned white hot in Porthos's stomach. "I'm feeling much better," and now his voice was lower, more alluring.

Oh.

Oh.

"Are you now?" Porthos asked, a broad grin creeping across his face. Aramis smirked in response as Porthos closed the gap between them, one hand finding Aramis's waist.

"Well, perhaps we should-" Porthos began, but he broke off when the boat lurched suddenly. They both paused listening. Sure enough, a moment later 'Porthos!' drifted down from above.

"Qué chingados es eso?" Aramis swore crossly in Spanish. Porthos grinned at the put out expression on his face.

"We'll be on land soon enough, love," he murmured, an invitation in his tone. Aramis raised an eyebrow at him, dark eyes flashing. Porthos chuckled and dipped his head, but before his lips could find Aramis's, D'Artagnan called again.

"Mierda!"

Athos poked his head in, not even remotely alarmed to find the pair of them moments from ripping the other's clothes off.

"From the degree of swearing, I know you heard D'Artagnan," he said mildly. Porthos sighed in resignation and followed Athos out on to the deck, Aramis at his heels, still muttering darkly in Spanish.

"How is it we're facing the wrong direction?" he asked D'Artagnan as the boy sheepishly stepped away from the wheel.

"Sorry."

"No, really, how in God's name did you even manage this? The ship shouldn't even be capable of turns that sharp." Shaking his head in disbelief, he guided the ship back into position and took her the rest of the way to port himself, D'Artagnan watching him avidly.

It only took a small bribe to convince the harbormaster's assistant to let them dock. Aramis was the first off the ship, and the joy on his face at being back on dry land at last was priceless. D'Artagnan followed more reluctantly, casting longing glances back at the ship.

"Please tell me I can ride back to Paris," Aramis muttered to Athos as they made their way down the crowded dock.

"Porthos and D'Artagnan can take the ship back and collect our horses and gear from Le Havre. You and I can find horses here," Athos promised. But for now we'd best find our man."

He tapped a passerby on the shoulder. "Pardon me; can you direct us to the harbormaster's office?"

The man stared blankly at him. "Better let me, Athos," Aramis said, pushing past him with a smile. A rapid exchange in Spanish followed before Aramis turned back, grinning smugly. "This way."

He led the way to a weathered building sitting at the end of the pier, where a small, officious man was directing a dozen sailors in a flurry of activity.

He eyed them beadily as they approached. "¿Sí? ¿Qué quieren los extranjeros?" Aramis made some form of introduction and some gold passed hands before Porthos at last heard the word Reynard enter the discussion.

The official beckoned for a boy to bring him a large book, presumably the records, and scanned down the page with practiced ease.

"Sí, sí. Reynard fue a las Antillas Españolas esta mañana."

Aramis groaned under his breath and thanked the man before gesturing for the others to follow him out into the street.

"Well? Where's Reynard?" D'Artagnan asked impatiently.

"He left for the colonies this morning."

"You've got to be kidding me," Porthos said flatly, staring at Aramis in stark disbelief.

"Are you sure?" Athos pressed. A deep crease had formed between his eyebrows.

"He's got a record of a Reynard taking a berth the merchant frigate La Doncella, bound for the Spanish Antilles."

"Are you sure it's him?" D'Artagnan broke in.

"How many Reynards do you expect to find around here?" Aramis retorted, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. To have come so far, only to lose the bastard now…

"That's it, then," Athos said quietly. "We've lost him. We'll need to head back immediately and report our failure to the king."

"I should not have gone with you," Aramis sighed. "I slowed you down."

Athos shook his head. "Treville should not have sent us in the first place."

That was the closest Athos had ever come to questioning Treville's judgment in front of them, and they all stared, shocked.

All but Porthos, who was gazing over the water with a thoughtful expression.

"You're being very quiet." Aramis nudged him with an elbow, hoping to snap him from his reverie.

"I was thinking," he began slowly.

"A dangerous pastime," D'Artagnan smirked. Porthos ignored him.

"We may not have lost him yet." Athos's eyes jumped up to Porthos's, his gaze calculating. Aramis just stared at him uncertainly.

D'Artagnan voiced their collective confusion. "How exactly? He's halfway across the ocean by now."

Porthos snorted. "It takes four months to cross to the colonies. He's not too far yet."

"I don't see how that helps us," Athos put in dryly.

Porthos didn't answer. Turning to Aramis, he asked, "The harbormaster said it was a merchant frigate, right? The ship Reynard got on?"

"Yes."

He nodded, looking pleased. "If they're headed to the colonies, they'll have a hold full o' goods to trade. Frigates aren't fast. They're built to be defensible."

"Is there a point to this show of knowledge?" Athos cut in impatiently.

"We came in a flute," Porthos informed them, grinning. "A small one, maybe, but still a flute. And flutes are fast. Faster than any fully loaded frigate."

"Surely you're not proposing we chase them?" D'Artagnan asked, sounding scandalized.

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

Athos shook his head. "We aren't equipped for a trans-Atlantic voyage."

Porthos shot him a scornful look. "I'm not saying we go all the way. We just chase him down, flying Spanish colors, and convince the frigate's captain to hand him over."

Aramis stared at Athos as he thought over Porthos's proposition. Part of Aramis wanted to finish the mission no matter what it took. They had seen this begin and he wanted to see it end. But another part of him, located primarily in his stomach, prayed Athos would declare the plan insanity and take them home.

"It would only take a few days at most," Porthos added.

Aramis could see the moment the decision was made. His stomach tightened in anticipation.

"Very well. We will attempt to chase down the frigate. But if we have not sighted them within three days, we will return to France. I won't risk this craft out on the ocean for too long."

"She can take it," Porthos argued.

Athos fixed him with a piercing stare. "But we cannot." His eyes flicked towards Aramis, who flushed despite himself. He hated feeling weak.

Porthos blanched slightly and nodded his understanding.

"Aramis, did the harbormaster say where exactly La Doncella was heading?"

"Hispaniola."

"Then we know what direction they were going in. I want you to head back to the ship. I'll meet you there shortly."

"Where are you going?" D'Artagnan called after him, but Athos had already vanished into the crowd.

They shrugged at one another and made their way back to the ship. D'Artagnan was back over the side in a heartbeat, but Aramis hesitated on the dock. His stomach rolled with the unpleasant memory of the past few days.

"You could stay." Porthos placed a gentle hand on his shoulder as he spoke, and the contact grounded Aramis, pulling him from the foul memories.

"No, I need to finish this."

Porthos did not question his statement, and Aramis imagined he must feel the same way. He knew how terrible the voyage had been for Aramis. He would not have suggested it if he did not want to wrap up this terrible business just as badly as Aramis himself.

Taking a deep breath, he boarded the ship. Even moored, it bucked alarmingly beneath his boots, sending his stomach into dizzying flops. It didn't make sense. Aramis had always had perfect balance. He was known for his grace while fighting. So why did a moving floor make his legs feel like jelly?

Porthos was watching him sympathetically. Aramis flashed him a weak smile. "I'm sure I'll get used to it eventually." His cheerful tone sounded forced even to his own ears.

Porthos's hand found his shoulder again, but he was not offering comfort this time. Instead he looked Aramis up and down critically, examining his balance with a practiced eye.

"You're standing wrong," he conceded at last.

"Standing wrong? What other way is there to stand?"

"Well…" Porthos hesitated. "It's like when you're shooting, right? You gotta find your balance first. It's just instinct. Think of it like that."

Aramis was about to snap at him and point out that his advice was about as useless as a bucket in a rainstorm when he realized his body was automatically trying to do as Porthos had instructed. But it wasn't enough yet, he still felt ill.

In a fit of inspiration, he whipped his gun from his belt, sighting along it at the small flag flying above the ship beside theirs. Instantly he felt his body begin to shift into position, compensating for wind resistance, motion, angle…

And then he was standing easily against the rocking motion of the ship. Porthos's broad grin told him he had it at last. "See? Not so hard once you figure it out."

Smiling back in delight, Aramis took a few steps, marveling at how freely he could move now that he'd found his balance at last. Porthos reached out and gave him a good-natured shove, laughing when Aramis caught himself immediately and pushed back.

This devolved into a mini wrestling match on the deck that ended with Aramis's wrists pinned in Porthos's large hands, their bodies pressed together. Porthos was laughing, light dancing in his dark eyes, and on impulse Aramis began to lean forward to kiss him, pulling back sharply when he remembered people might see.

Porthos had no such compunctions, yanking Aramis closer and capturing his mouth in a burning kiss that left him gasping.

"Porthos," he hissed breathlessly, attempting to shove the larger man away. "Someone might see."

"It's a port, Aramis," Porthos replied, grinning wickedly. "No one here cares."

"I care," said a plaintive voice from somewhere behind them, and they turned together to see D'Artagnan hanging from the rigging with a vaguely traumatized expression. They immediately lapsed into a fit of laughter that D'Artagnan joined after a moment.

The arrival of several unknown men on the dock bearing large barrels cut their amusement short.

"Who are you?" Porthos asked challenging, but a moment later Athos strode up behind them. He appeared to be directing them.

"Yes, load them right into the cargo bay," he called to the two men in the lead.

"Athos?" Aramis called. "What is all this? I thought our hold was supposed to be empty."

"I bought wine. It's not that heavy," he said shortly, before turning back to continue supervising the loading of what now appeared to be three dozen barrels of wine. They gaped at him.

"How long do you expect we'll be at sea?" Porthos asked dazedly.

"I ran out last time. All that was left was some kind of miserable alcohol that smelled like rat piss. I refuse to drink the swill that is associated with ships. Besides, the wine from this region is supposed to be exceptional. I'll simply take what's left back to Paris."

"Of course, why didn't we think of that?" D'Artagnan snorted.

Soon enough the last barrels were loaded and the men paid. Athos turned to Porthos with an air of expectation. "So, where are we headed?"

"Why are you asking me?" Porthos asked, looking rather alarmed. Aramis fought the urge to grin at his obvious discomfort. It was unusual for Athos to pass on the mantle of leadership, and when he did, it was not to Porthos. Aramis had served in the regiment longer than any of them, and in the event that Athos was wounded or simply not present, he naturally took command.

But poor Porthos looked on the verge of panic, so he interceded quietly. "I do believe he's asking for our heading, mon capitaine." He hoped the teasing edge to his tone would set Porthos at ease.

It seemed to work. Porthos squared his shoulders and began calling out instructions, and soon enough the boat was beginning to glide slowly out of the harbor, wind swelling in the sails.

Aramis joined Porthos at the wheel, still reveling in the ease with which he could traverse the deck. He let his hand rest on the small of Porthos's back as his lover turned their ship to face the open ocean.

Chapter Text

Aramis groaned aloud as he lost hold of the rope. Again. It seemed regaining his balance was not synonymous with having any capability whatsoever to sail a ship.

He was a disaster. Give him an unbroken horse over this treacherous wreck of ropes and shifting boards.

Lord, they'd all be lucky to get out of this without sinking the damn ship.

He could see Porthos trying to hide his grin and smacked his shoulder for good measure.

"I will get it," he muttered mutinously.

"Course you will," Porthos said encouragingly, but the laughter hadn't left his eyes. Aramis growled at him and turned his attention back to the rigging, where the rope he was supposed to be tying down was now flapping pathetically.

"Aren't you going to get that?" D'Artagnan asked, voice drifting down from the crow's nest where he was lounging.

"Not all of us were born to scramble through ropes like squirrels!" Aramis called back. D'Artagnan laughed, his head popping over the side.

"I can get it for you," he offered.

"Don't you think he ought to learn to do it on his own?" Athos asked blithely. He was sitting on a pile of sacks near the stern, a bottle of wine in one hand and a compass in the other.

Porthos snorted. "Says the man who refuses to ever go up in the rigging again."

"My time is better spent down here," Athos replied airily. "Besides, navigating a ship is very difficult, technical work that requires a great deal of patience and intelligence."

Aramis laughed aloud, earning himself a baleful look. "I bet I could plot out course in five minutes time."
"I guarantee you cannot."

"Then let me see the map and we'll find out."

Athos drew himself to his feet. "I will not. You would simply mess up my complicated measurements and force me to redo hours of work."

"You could at least share the wine!" D'Artagnan shouted down.

"I paid for it," Athos said shortly.

"Oh, don't be too hard on him. It's only because he drinks so much wine that he wasn't puking his guts up alongside you. His stomach's too strong," Porthos grinned.

Athos shot them all an irritated look. "I am the navigator. I do not have to sit here and listen to this slander."

"Of course not, not when you could sit below amidst your precious barrels of wine. Tell us, Athos, would you like some privacy with it?" Aramis asked innocently.

Athos growled some unintelligible insult before stalking off to the cabin to 'return to his maps.'

Aramis glanced over at Porthos. "You know he's only making a big deal out of this navigation stuff so he doesn't have to go up in the rigging, right?"

Porthos laughed gleefully. "Can you blame him? You didn't see D'Artagnan's masterpiece." A dark head popped over again, grinning. "Besides, we won't be out here for long. We can make do without him as long as one of you learns something."

Aramis looked back at the rope dangling just out of reach and sighed. "I'm afraid you may have to make do with just D'Artagnan. I seem to be rather hopeless."

"Ah, come off it, you're not so bad," Porthos said bracingly.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "Oh? I was at the wheel for less than an hour and managed to almost wreck us on some rocks that shouldn't even have been out here, and I've yet to tie off a single sail or make it to the tops. Tell me, Porthos, when do I graduate to hopeless?"

"It's just a bit of a learning curve, that's all."

"I'm beginning to think it's something you're born to or not at all," Aramis said with a dispirited sigh.

"Aw, don't give up so easy. Here, I'll help you up."

Aramis eyed him doubtfully but accepted the proffered leg up into the rigging above their heads. He clasped the ropes tightly. He might have found his sea legs, but he still wasn't comfortable in the swaying mess of ropes.

"Just grab it already," D'Artagnan called down unhelpfully. Aramis shot him a glare and attempted to swing himself forward, but his momentum was wrong and he had to jerk his leg up sharply to avoid becoming tangled in the lines.

He blew out his breath in frustration. The only blessing in all this was that at least his ribs had stopped paining him at long last. Stretching, he felt the tips of his fingers brush the rope. He surged forward and grabbed it, promptly losing his grip on the other in the process.

The new rope slid through his fingers with burning speed. Yelping, he released it and fell the last few feet to the deck.

He braced himself for impact, but Porthos managed to half-catch him out of the air before he hit the planks, sending them both crashing to the floor with slightly less force than he would have hit with otherwise. Above them, D'Artagnan exploded into laughter.

"You might actually be hopeless," Porthos laughed once he recovered his breath. Aramis groaned, letting his head thunk against Porthos's chest.

Porthos just laughed again, wrapping his arms around Aramis's waist for a moment before pushing him gently off.

"Come on, up you get." Aramis sighed but allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, sending another glare at the crow's nest, from which faint laughter was still emanating.

"I think I'll just be ship's surgeon," he muttered sullenly. "That's a post, right?"

"Are we going into battle?" Porthos teased.

"Well, by all means, if you'd rather have me up there," Aramis gestured towards the rigging, "you can have the pleasure of providing a soft landing place every time I fall."

Porthos held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright, ship's doctor it is."

D'Artagnan was suddenly scrambling excitedly towards them. "Wait, wait, if Athos and Aramis are both not doing any real sailing, does that make me first mate?"

Porthos looked as if he were desperately avoiding admitting the fact, but D'Artagnan caught the expression on his face and grinned hugely. "I always wanted to be first mate on a pirate ship!"

"We're not exactly pirates," Aramis pointed out. "More like unlicensed privateers who impersonating Spanish traders." This didn't seem to dim the lad's enthusiasm as he swarmed back up the ropes.

He looked over at Porthos. "You've created a monster."

Porthos huffed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Nah, it's good he's excited." Something glimmered in his eyes suddenly as his face split into a wicked grin.

"How pleased d'you think he'd be if I let him watch the ship for a while?"

"Why would you do that?" Aramis asked slowly, though he had a feeling where this was heading.

"Thought you and me might go see where Athos is keeping the wine." Porthos grinned again, and the insinuation was obvious.

Without a second thought, Aramis looked up into the rigging.

"Oh, D'Artagnan!"

D'Artagnan was scrambling around the rigging when he heard a door slam from below. Leaping easily over to the mast, he swung himself down in a death-defying feat to perch on the boom, adrenaline racing at his own skill. He looked around to see Athos storming about on the deck.

"Is everything okay?"

Athos didn't jump so much as flinch to the point that his bottle of wine risked flying from his fingers and smacking D'Artagnan in the head.

"What are you doing up there?" Athos demanded, trying to settle his ruffled feathers and casting a menacing glare at him.

D'Artagnan grinned, pleased with himself. He had always been the one unused to their silent comings and goings, and now he could return the favor. It was fun to watch Athos jump.

Aramis and Porthos weren't quite as susceptible to his tricks, seeming to have a greater natural inclination to look up even when on deck.

"I'm just keeping an eye out. Porthos lashed the wheel and disappeared."

Athos frowned then, and his gaze leaped to his wine before looking suspiciously up again. "Did you take my wine?"

D'Artagnan chuckled, safe up in the rigging. "Your wine? I thought it was for everyone."

Athos scowled, leaning against the mast with a distinctly petulant expression. "As I said before, I paid for it. Now, did you, or did you not, take my wine?"

"No, Athos, I didn't take your wine." He had thought that would appease him, but instead he grimaced slightly and took a hearty swig from his swiftly depleting bottle. "It was probably Aramis or Porthos, what does it matter?"

Athos levelled a glance at him that made him feel as if he was missing something important. When he just stared blankly back, Athos sighed.

"Porthos hasn't left the wheel since we started, except to give it to me when he needs to sleep, in which case I promptly give it to you."

"Thanks for that, by the way," he interjected, and Athos lips twitched in a small smile before continuing.

"He's lashed the wheel, put you up as far away as possible, and taken a, frankly, gratuitous amount of wine to their cabin."

Their cabin?

D'Artagnan considered that as he swayed in the ropes, using them like a hammock until Athos shuddered and looked at the deck. He suddenly stormed off, only to reappear with a bottle of wine that he tossed up at the rigging.

"Take this, and plug your ears." He turned to head back in but paused, glaring up into the rigging. "And get down from there before you break you neck."

There was another slam as Athos disappeared again, and D'Artagnan meditatively uncorked the bottle as he swung gently in the ropes.

On a lull in the ship's swaying, the breeze brought him a noise that made him choke.

It sounded distressingly like Aramis, and it wasn't quite words as, well, noises.

Traumatized, D'Artagnan jammed the cork back into his bottle and scrambled with all of his skill up the mast. Hunkering down in the silent safety of the crow's nest, he propped the wine between his knees so that he could tip it down his throat, and then he put his hands over his ears.

He needed more wine.

Athos wasn't going to be pleased.

"You know, when Athos bought that wine, I don't think he had this purpose in mind," Aramis murmured, his head thrown back against the decking as Porthos licked a hot path over his stomach.

Porthos's chuckle was low, and he looked up with a decidedly wicked smile as he licked red liquor from his lips. "Ridiculous. Wine's at its best when it's drunk off of you."

Aramis raised an eyebrow at the expensive Spanish wine staining his flesh, and couldn't hold back a shudder when Porthos dipped his head to pick up a few wayward drops.

There was a small hoard of bottles next to the bed. Taken on the decision that Athos probably counted them all anyway; if they took one, they might as well take a few. Aramis had a half-full one in his hand, and there was a discarded one on the floor next to Porthos, its contents now dripping along Aramis' hips.

"No, you're right," he said shakily, "It would be a waste of good wine."

"That's better," Porthos growled approvingly, and squeezed Aramis' thighs when he wriggled. "What's up?"

"The window's open," he muttered, trying to keep his voice low.

Porthos grinned and refused to let him go. "D'Artagnan will just have to get used to it."

"Why, are you planning on raiding Athos' cellar more often?" Aramis asked, trying not to laugh.

"I'm gonna be raiding somethin'," Porthos replied, dark eyes flashing with intent until Aramis stilled like a fish under a very big shadow.

There was moment of silent anticipation where all that could be heard was their hitched breathing and the surprisingly comforting sound of the ship creaking, and then Porthos lunged. The wine on Aramis's stomach was forgotten as Porthos crawled up his body and kissed him hungrily.

There was the sweet tang of berries on his lips and Aramis licked them away, grinning when Porthos groaned into his mouth.

They hadn't been able to do this since they left Paris, and safe inside the captain's cabin with no one else about for miles, desire that had been tempered by nausea flared into bright, dizzying existence.

Aramis scratched his fingers along Porthos' back and shuddered when he bit him on the lip, the bite a little painful as it happened just when the ship was on a swell.

"Sorry," Porthos grumbled, and then pulled back the tiniest amount with what looked like gargantuan effort. "How's your seasickness, can you handle this?"

Aramis looked into the concerned eyes of his lover and answered by arching underneath him, ensuring that every bit of exposed, sticky flesh pushed against his. "I have you to anchor me, what more could I need?"

Porthos's grin was at once dirty and delighted, and it made Aramis's chest tight with happiness.

Perhaps it was because Porthos was still foolishly worrying over his ribs, but he let Aramis roll them both over until he straddled Porthos's wide hips. Upright, it was even easier to withstand the sea's rocking, and with Porthos warm and inviting beneath him, it was bliss.

Aramis lifted his wine bottle to his lips and then hesitated, before passing the bottle to Porthos who frowned and asked, "Don't you want it?"

"Why would I want wine, when I could taste something far sweeter?" he replied with a sly tilt of his lips, and laughed quietly when Porthos made a noise that could only be described as eager realisation.

As Aramis leaned down and tracked kisses over Porthos' chest, he saw him clench the bottle so tightly he thought that it might break. They both drew in shallow breaths of air that were heavy with the musk of sensual excitement and the tartness of grapes.

When Aramis made quick work of Porthos's breeches and licked one long stripe along dark skin, the bottle clattered to the floor as Porthos drove his hands into Aramis's hair and groaned

Athos's wine had nothing on the taste of Porthos, and Aramis was a connoisseur.

It turned out to be deliciously easy to match the sea's swell, and then rhythm was swiftly ignored. Much like the expensive liquor making ruby puddles on the floor.

They glittered in the candlelight, and Aramis fell asleep with Porthos dipping his fingers in them to make gentle patterns on his chest.

"Oh, come off it Aramis, it'll be fun," D'Artagnan pleaded, dragging the older Musketeer towards the side of the boat. Porthos watched with a smile as he carefully lowered the sails.

Athos had decided that since they'd yet to glimpse the elusive La Doncella and were now stuck in a light fog that they couldn't pursue anything through, they were heading back to France. D'Artagnan had immediately declared that before they did that he was going swimming. He begged Porthos until he agreed to lower the sails for a spell.

Porthos had reluctantly agreed. He wasn't fond of the idea that they would be defenseless in the water with their sails down, especially when they couldn't get them up again very easily, but D'Artagnan's wide, innocent eyes had been Porthos's downfall before. The fog was thicker than he liked, but there hadn't been any ships on the horizon before it had come down, so Porthos grudgingly conceded, secretly hoping the youngest Musketeer would change his mind.

Now the lad was trying to wheedle Aramis into the water with him. Aramis was looking down at the waves doubtfully. "But it's probably cold," he argued.

"You're getting a sunburn and you're going to complain about the water being too cold?" D'Artagnan asked skeptically.

Aramis raised a hand to his cheeks, which were indeed slowly but steadily turning red despite the shadow of his hat. D'Artagnan looked even worse. "Fair point."

"Then let's go!" D'Artagnan cried, stripping off his shirt and boots as he headed for the side.

Out of the corner of his eye, Porthos saw Athos look up as Aramis blanched visibly behind D'Artagnan's back, but Porthos was already stepping forward. He knew full well why Aramis didn't want to remove his shirt, and he certainly wouldn't give D'Artagnan time to ask in his blunt, youthful way.

"I dunno if I'd go swimming today," he said casually, distracting the lad just as he opened his mouth. "There's a lot of sharks down there."

He heard Athos snort from behind him, but D'Artagnan spoke before Athos could say anything.

"What's a shark?"

Porthos grinned wolfishly as Aramis relaxed, flashing him a grateful smile that disappeared immediately following his next words.

"It a giant fish with a mouthful of razor sharp teeth and a taste for human flesh." He tried not to laugh at the twin expressions of horror on the faces before him.

"Why on earth would anyone ever swim in the ocean then?" Aramis demanded nervously.

"He's just trying to scare you," Athos called over. "There are no sharks down there."

"But they do exist?" D'Artagnan checked.

"Oh yes."

D'Artagnan peered over the side uneasily. "I can't see anything," he muttered, but whatever he was going to say next was cut off when Porthos snuck up behind him and tipped him over the side. He landed in the water with a loud splash and surfaced with a shout of fright.

"Ah, calm down, I don't see any sharks today," Porthos chuckled as Aramis leaned over the railing beside him, laughing at D'Artagnan.

"Nice one," Aramis said appreciatively, glancing over at Porthos, who playfully pulled the hat from his head, trying to keep his face casual. He saw the sudden understanding in his expression just before Porthos caught him by the back of the shirt and sent him careening over the join their youngest member.

A moment later he was bobbing beside the lad, shouting Spanish curses up at him.

"At least I saved your hat!" he called down teasingly.

"Which is the only reason I won't shoot you when I get back up there."

Porthos laughed as Athos wandered over to watch, careful to stay more than an arm's reach away.

"Well, I have to admit the water is quite refreshing," Aramis called up grudging after a few minutes. "But I am glad there aren't any sharks."

"Oh, look, there's one," Athos said casually, pointing at a blank patch of ocean behind them.

Moments later they were clinging to the netting they'd thrown over earlier to use as a ladder, hanging just above the waterline and searching the ocean frantically. Porthos couldn't keep his laughter in any longer and it burst from him explosively.

He knew the exact moment Aramis realized they'd been tricked because another flood of Spanish swears drifted over the side. He seemed to be getting more creative. Even Athos was laughing.

Wiping futilely at his streaming eyes, Porthos turned around to search for something to use as a towel and froze in shock.

Through the dissipating fog, he could see another ship coming towards them. It was getting closer every moment. Sickening realization settled in his stomach like a cannonball.

They'd never get the sails back up in time.

Chapter Text

"Get back on the ship, now!" Porthos roared, scrambling across the deck to where his weapons lay discarded by the stern. Athos's face was grim as he buckled his sword belt back on. Below, Porthos could hear Aramis and D'Artagnan climbing desperately.

Porthos cursed the fog, the ship, the strong breeze, and mostly himself, for he should have known better than to furl the sails in dangerous waters. His compliance might have doomed them all.

He fumbled with his belt, cursing again as he realized his jacket was out of reach down below, along with all his extra bullets and powder. Aramis's sword lay beside his, so he grabbed it up and shoved it at Athos to pass along, running to the bow to check how much time they had.

The ship was approaching fast, far too fast to outrun even if they could get the sails down in time. He couldn't see her colors from here, but she didn't look official.

"Should we get the sail down?" D'Artagnan asked him, appearing beside him soaked and panicky. Apparently playing pirates was all fun and games until real ones showed up.

"There isn't time," Porthos hissed. "Load the cannons. She won't fire at us, so we have the advantage."

"Why won't she fire?" Aramis asked, buckling his belt over his dripping shirt. Both he and D'Artagnan were already beginning to shiver in the brisk breeze that had picked up, carrying the enemy ship all the faster.

"She'll want to take the prize with as little damage as she can manage," Porthos told him grimly. "There's no need for cannons when it'll be obvious to the captain that we can't run away. They're going to board us."

"We've only got two guns to a side!" D'Artagnan pointed out.

"We'd best make our shots count then."

Athos appeared to be deliberating about something. Suddenly he sighed. "If Aramis will sacrifice one of his shirts, we can use some of the wine as explosives. I'd imagine setting their ship on fire might provide a handy distraction."

"Why me?" Aramis asked indignantly, holding his pistol in his hand at shoulder height to keep from dripping on the powder.

"I know for a fact you brought three extra shirts, that's why!" Athos retorted.

"There's no time to argue," Porthos cut in. "Aramis, if Athos can give up the wine, you can give up a damn shirt! Athos, leave your pistol with Aramis."

Aramis sighed but nodded at Athos, who handed over his gun before disappearing below.

"D'Artagnan!" Porthos called. "Give Aramis your pistol and then head over to the fore cannon. I'll show you how to load it."

"Why am I in charge of cannons?" the lad asked, looking alarmed as he handed over his pistol. Porthos thrust his own at Aramis and led D'Artagnan over to the eight-pounder on the deck.

"Because Athos is apparently making bombs and Aramis is the best shot, so you get to be cannon master. You'll only get two shots anyway, one from each cannon on whatever side they come up on, so make them count and then get ready to repel boarders."

D'Artagnan nodded, looking nervous but determined, and together they made short work of the cannons. Porthos looked up; he could see the ship's colors now.

So could D'Artagnan, it seemed, for he cried out suddenly, "It's a French ship!"

"It's a French privateer," Porthos corrected, checking the angle of the fore cannon.

"So can't we just tell them we're Musketeers?"

Porthos barked out a humorless laugh. "Lad, they ain't going to wait for us to initiate a conversation. They'll attack immediately. If we can hold them off long enough they may ask to parlay and we can tell 'em then. It's our only shot."

D'Artagnan paled but nodded his understanding.

"How many men are on that ship, do you think?" Aramis asked quietly, appearing at his shoulder. Porthos could see light glinting off drawn weapons. The ship was very near.

"At least fifty," Porthos told him honestly. "Could be as many as a hundred." He saw the grim understanding in Aramis's eyes as he realized how hopeless their position was. A shiver coursed through him and Porthos fought the urge to pull him close. There wasn't time.

"Give me a hand here!" Athos called from the hatch, and D'Artagnan dashed over to help him carry up a dozen bottles with cloths shoved in the necks.

"We can wreak some havoc with these," Porthos said with grim satisfaction. "Just be careful not to drop any onboard. Last thing we need is the ship burning down around us while we're trying to save it."

"Yes, with all that wine in the hold she'd go up like a torch," Aramis said with forced gaiety. It was a poor attempt at a joke, but nerves had all of them cracking smiles.

"We'd better get in position," Porthos said quietly, understanding that the burden of leadership fell to him. "D'Artagnan, stay by the cannons. Fire before they get any boarders off. Athos, stay hidden until they're close enough to hit square with a bottle, then light the bastards up. Aramis, pick off anyone you can see giving orders. Let's create some chaos."

D'Artagnan and Athos nodded grimly, but before D'Artagnan could head off, Athos laid a hand on his arm. Solemnly he extended his right hand. D'Artagnan stacked his next, and Aramis laid his own over it.

Porthos swallowed hard as he placed his own hand heavily atop the pile, remembering the last time they'd done this. He suddenly felt the weight of their lives on his shoulders.

He wasn't sure he could bear the burden.

Was this what Athos felt like every time he led them into battle, or sent them off with no way of knowing if they would survive? How did he bear it? How could he survive feeling as if his chest was being ripped open?

"All for one," Athos began quietly. Porthos wanted to shake him, force the calmness from his voice, demand he take over once more, but he didn't move.

He met every pair of eyes in the circle as they chorused, "And one for all." The words caught in his throat as he struggled to breath past the lump that had formed. Athos looked resigned, face set in grim lines. D'Artagnan was utterly determined, and he knew the lad would never go down without a fight. And Aramis…

He could hardly bear to look at Aramis.

Athos and D'Artagnan left without another word. On the breeze, Porthos could hear snatches of shouting from the nearing ship.

Aramis turned to look at him, a pistol in each hand and two more by his feet. He'd forgotten his arquebus below, and he looked oddly young without his hat and jacket. It wasn't fair, to finally have him and then to lose him like this.

What had they done to make God curse them so soundly?

Aramis smiled sadly at him, and it sent daggers into his heart. Porthos wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't come out.

For a moment all that mattered was Aramis, watching him with a look that said he'd follow him to the gates of Hell and beyond if that was where Porthos led him. The trust terrified him, so he stepped forward and brought Aramis's mouth to his own in a crashing kiss that he felt to his very core.

He tried to convey in that one burning moment all the words he couldn't get out, and from the way Aramis pressed against him, icy clothes soaking against his chest, he knew he was heard.

Aramis broke away first, wide eyes staring at him desperately.

"I love-"

The boom of a cannon drowned out the last word.

It had begun.

Wordlessly they broke apart. As Porthos whirled to check on the others, he saw Aramis raise a pistol, a determined expression on his handsome face. Then Porthos lost sight of him as the second cannon went off, the screams of wounded men pulling his attention away.

The ship beside them was easily three times the size of their puny flute, but Porthos wasn't concerned with the size of the vessel. It was the dozens of men standing ready at her railing that made his heart sink in his chest, chasing away the last of the warmth Aramis had left.

There was a gunshot from behind him and Porthos watched a large, dark-haired man who'd been barking orders drop heavily to the deck. The men around him drew back warily, looking over at Aramis with healthy alarm, but Porthos couldn't feel proud.

All he'd managed to do was make Aramis more of a target.

A hiss cut through the shouts even as another gunshot rang out, another man falling on to the deck. One of Athos's bottles smashed soundly against the side of the ship, landing directly amid a mass of tarred ropes. They lit up like torches, sending panicked shouts down the length of the boat.

Well, at least one thing had gone right.

D'Artagnan appeared at his elbow, but Porthos sent him back to help Athos lob his firebombs, falling back a few steps himself to guard Aramis when it became clear that at least one party would attempt to board despite the fire.
"They're coming!" he yelled as the first few men swung across the gap between the ships. Another bottle smashed on the deck where they'd been standing, just a second too late to stop them.

Aramis pivoted and fired in a heartbeat, and one of the men let go of his rope with a scream, taking down the man beside him and sending them both crashing into the waves.

One bullet left.

He heard Aramis draw his sword behind him, obviously hoping to save the last bullet for now. Grimly, Porthos drew his schiavona, the heavy hilt reassuring in his hand.

"Hold them off as long as you can!" he cried, leaping forward to meet the first boarder. He heard several bottles smash in quick succession as Athos and D'Artagnan lobbed them rapidly at the enemy ship, trying to make the most of their supply before the attackers reached their position.

The first three enemies fell before him, but the fourth led a group in a wide arc aimed at Aramis as those behind them charged Porthos. He drew his main gauche and leapt into the fray, unleashing himself on the unsuspecting enemy.

He could hear the ringing of steel from the other end of the ship and knew Athos and D'Artagnan were now besieged as well. He fought on doggedly, refusing to give an inch, still trying to stem the flow of attackers, lessen the amount that could get near Aramis at a given time. The reassuring clang of combat from behind him kept him going.

A second group boarded before they'd managed to wipe out the first. This one was led by a tall man with a thick blond beard that seemed familiar to Porthos for a moment, but he had no time to consider it, for as they landed a huge group came after him.

The blond man was among those that slipped past, a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, and Porthos was forced to forget about him in the reality of the enemies before him.

He wasn't sure how long they fought before a massive sailor with fists the size of dinner plates finally caught him a blow across the cheek, whirling him around and sending him crashing to his knees on the deck. Dazedly, he realized he could see Aramis dueling the bearded man, exhaustion evident in his sluggish movements.

Aramis's opponent was not as skilled, but he had the advantage of being fresh, and a moment later he caught Aramis's blade on his own and twisted it from his grasp, landing a heavy kick to his chest at the same time that sent his dagger clattering to the deck along with it.

Aramis staggered back, one hand clutching his chest while the other scrabbled at the back of his belt for the last gun. Behind him, Porthos could hear the massive privateer approaching, but his head was ringing and he had a hard time bringing himself to care.

Aramis's fingers found the gun and Porthos breathed a sigh of relief, knowing he would have time to kill the man that dared threaten him. But just as he pulled the pistol free, Aramis's eyes darted across the deck and fixed on him. He watched the horror dawn on his face.

He understood what was about to happen a heartbeat too slow.

Time seemed to stand still. He tried to open his mouth, to shout a denial, but he never got the words out. Aramis's hand whipped around until it faced him. The crack split the air and Porthos heard the heavy thud behind him that told him the bullet had found its mark.

He didn't care.

All he could do was watch in horror as Aramis finished his twist to face the bearded man, the now useless pistol falling from his fingers in a gesture of defeat.

The man smiled at him down the barrel of the gun that he'd stepped forward to press directly between Aramis's eyes, shooting Porthos a feral grin that froze his blood.

"Well, well, what do we have here?"

Chapter Text

Aramis stared down the barrel of the gun, waiting for the click that would spell his doom. It never came. Instead, his opponent ground the barrel against his forehead ever so slightly, eyes locked on Porthos, who still knelt on the deck a few feet away.

Porthos growled, a savage sound.

Behind him, he could hear D'Artagnan cursing under his breath as he and Athos were hauled forward. He didn't dare turn his head to check that they were uninjured. Idly, he wondered if they'd been caught before him, or if he'd sealed their fates when he'd put himself in this position.

Aramis curled his hands into fists as the man continued to watch Porthos with unreadable interest in his blue eyes. He shifted slightly and felt the barrel prod sharply against his head once more, but the man never once broke eye contact.

Suddenly the man's expression shifted to something triumphant. "Porthos," he said confidently, his voice deep but scratchy.

Porthos stared back at him, confusion evident on his face, and the blond man began to laugh, lowering the gun and stepping back slightly.

A second later Porthos caught him around the waist with the force of a battering ram and the pair went down in a tangle of limbs.

The rest of the crew started forward, jostling in around Aramis and grabbing him to keep him from joining the fray. One pulled sharply on his arm, jarring newly bruised ribs, but Aramis's eyes were fixed on Porthos and he hardly noticed.

Porthos rolled the bearded man across the deck, landing a heavy punch on his cheek. His opponent caught his arm on a lock and spun, his mouth moving as if he were telling Porthos something, but Aramis couldn't make out the words.

Then suddenly they were rolling back towards them, but they were… laughing.

Porthos was laughing.

What the hell was going on?

Smoothly, the bearded man rose to his feet, offering Porthos a hand up. Grinning, he took it, rising easily. Side by side, they were nearly the same size.

"It's good to see you!" the man cried, pounding Porthos on the shoulder. Turning to face his own crew, he spread his arms wide in excitement. "This, men, is the legendary Porthos, terror of the Spanish isles!"

Aramis watched hostility transform into awe as the privateer crew all turned disbelieving eyes on Porthos. He almost groaned aloud.

Another legend.

The man spun back around, proffering his hand for Porthos to shake. Porthos looked at it and raised an eyebrow.

"You want me to shake hands with the man holding my friends captive?" he asked, and there was an underlying edge to his tone.

Aramis recognized the threat for what it was, and apparently so did the bearded man, for he immediately turned and nodded to the men behind Aramis, who found his arms free at last. Athos and D'Artagnan appeared on either side of him, watching the scene with wary eyes.

This man must be the captain, then.

He turned back to Porthos, his mouth open as if to ask a question, but Porthos had already brushed past him and was heading for the three of them, ignoring the hostile stares of the enemy crew.

"You alright?" he asked quietly as he reached them, glancing all three Musketeers over with a quick sweep. Aramis didn't fail to notice that Porthos kept himself directly between himself and the bearded man.

Athos and D'Artagnan nodded tersely and Aramis breathed a sigh of relief, realizing only then that breathing was slightly difficult. Again.

Lovely.

Then he remembered that just a few minutes ago he'd been certain Porthos and his friends would die, and he fought the insane urge to laugh with relief that he was alive to be annoyed by his reinjured ribs.

"Aramis?" Porthos was watching him with concern. Aramis swallowed, forcing back the grim thoughts of death at last.

"I'm fine." For good measure, he shot him a smile, but Porthos didn't look convinced. Before he could push, Athos cut in.

"Aren't you going to introduce us to your new friend?"

The bearded man must have heard him, for a look of feigned hurt crossed his face. "Porthos! You didn't tell your companions about your old friend Captain Gavillier?"

Reluctantly Porthos looked away from Aramis, but the smile he gave the man was real. "When I knew him, he was just another mate trying to find a post. Captain now, is it? You've gone up in the world."

Aramis examined the man, curious about this new, unexpected link to Porthos's past. Gavillier was tall, as tall as Porthos, but not quite as broad in the shoulders. Nor, Aramis noted wryly, as handsome, though his delicate features might be attractive to some. His beard was well groomed and his long blond hair was pulled back with a ribbon. A finely cut navy blue jacket with gold buttons was tied at his waist with a scarlet sash, and his weapons gleamed.

Gavillier spread his hands humbly, but a pleased light twinkled in his eyes. "And what about you? We all expected you to be terrorizing the colonies, and yet here you are in a tiny vessel bound from Spain with some very deadly companions. There must be a story there, I'm sure."

He winked at Aramis. Porthos smoothly stepped between them. "Ah, you know me. Always lookin' for adventure. We're hunting down a man who ran off with our share of the loot from a big operation in Spain. Thought we could catch 'im quick enough. This tub is all we could steal on such short notice."

"Your companions do not have the look of seamen," Gavillier said thoughtfully, looking Aramis up and down in a way that made his skin crawl.

"We were running jobs primarily on land," Porthos lied, easily. The captain nodded, apparently satisfied.

"So who are these friends of yours who just killed so many of my crew?" Around them, Aramis noticed the hard looks on the men's' faces. The captain might be jovial, and Porthos was clearly respected, but the rest of them were still faced with hostility.

"This is Athos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan," Porthos said, waving his hand at each in turn. Aramis felt Gavillier's gaze settle on him as his name was spoken.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Gavillier said, bowing in a mock aristocratic fashion and shooting Aramis a grin.

Porthos took a few steps towards them, taking up a position at Aramis's shoulder and resting a hand there. The warmth of it made Aramis realize he was freezing, his wet shirt leaching the warmth from his bones. He struggled not to shiver. At least D'Artagnan had a dry shirt to put on before the battle had begun.

Gavillier's eyes narrowed when he noticed the gesture and he looked away. Porthos's lip twitched up in a satisfied grin and Aramis understood.

He had been claimed.

"This here's Sauvagne, my new first mate," Gavillier said, acting as though nothing had happened as he clapped a hand to the back of a man almost as large as the one that had taken Porthos down. Hard eyes glared at Aramis over a mouth set into a cruel line and crossed by a vicious scar.

"New first mate?" Athos inquired.

Gavillier smiled, but the grin didn't entirely reach his eyes. "Well, your friend there took down my old one," he said, nodding his head at the massive body lying on the deck. The bullet had caught him square in the chest. Aramis sensed more hostile glares being thrown his way.

Porthos met Gavillier's challenging stare. "Well, maybe if you thought with your head rather than your sword, your men might still be alive."

For a moment, Aramis thought Gavillier would strike him. Then he laughed aloud and clapped Porthos on the shoulder. "Ah, but you were always telling me not to be so hot-headed, weren't you, old friend? Perhaps I should have taken your lessons to heart. No matter, it is of little consequence."

"The lives of your crew are of little consequence?" Aramis blurted out, caught between horror and outrage.

Gavillier glanced over at him and shrugged. "More loot for the rest of us. Isn't that right, Porthos?" he added, nudging him with an elbow.

Porthos smiled. "Yeah, that's right," he replied, but Aramis could see the strain on his face as he struggled to keep up the act.

"But my friend, surely you weren't thinking of crossing the ocean in this little tub?" Gavillier asked, looking around at the ship as he deftly stepped over a corpse.

"Nah, we were about to give up," Porthos admitted. "We haven't the manpower or the supplies to try our hand at the crossing."

"Give up?" Gavillier asked, sounding outraged on their behalf. "Nonsense! Join my crew, and we shall hunt down this traitor together."

Aramis saw Porthos hesitate, eyes darting towards Athos, trying to defer to his leadership, but it was obvious Gavillier expected an answer from him at once.

From the corner of his eye, Aramis saw Athos nod imperceptibly, giving Porthos the permission he sought. Porthos blinked in relief as he turned back to Gavillier. "Very well. We accept."

"Wonderful!" Gavillier cried, beaming. "I'm sure we can find places for you all within the crew. If you'll collect your things, you can come across immediately. My men will load your supplies onto La Catin."

Athos broke in before any of them could so much as open their mouths. "I'll need to speak to your quartermaster about the handling of some of our supplies."

Gavillier's face shifted into an irritated look, losing its good humor. Beside him, Sauvagne spat, "Your friend shot him too. First man to die."

Aramis remembered the dark haired man he'd killed with his first shot. He really hadn't made himself any friends with his actions.

"Then I take it you're seeking a replacement. I nominate myself," Athos said smoothly.

"You?" Gavillier asked, chuckling. "What do you know about managing stores?"

"I managed an estate of the nobility when I was younger," Athos shrugged, the half-truth falling easily from his lips. Aramis wondered why he was bothering until suddenly it struck him.

Athos didn't want anyone else touching his wine.

"Well, you can't be worse than Poutain was," Gavillier said after a tense moment. "You can have the job."

A voice from the other ship stopped him from carrying on any further. "Captain, Ebert needs help with the wounded!"

Gavillier cursed and spun back towards his ship, issuing orders to those of his crew still on the Madeleine. "Gaspin, check for survivors. Rouen, take three men and go with Athos to start transferring the supplies."

"Captain," Aramis called, fighting back the unease that bubbled in his stomach when Gavillier turned a curious eye on him. "I can help your surgeon with the wounded."

"You need to go fetch your things," Porthos said stiffly, and Aramis could hear what he wasn't saying: you're soaking wet and freezing and please don't make it worse.

But it wasn't in him to stand idly by while men died.

"I'm sure Ebert will welcome the assistance," Gavillier said after a moment. "Come across as quickly as you are able."

Aramis carefully did not look at Porthos, knowing he'd be glowered at him. Instead he turned to D'Artagnan and said, "Will you gather my things to take to the other ship so I can go immediately."

"And mine," Porthos added. Naturally he wasn't going to let Aramis go alone. He would have sighed, but he didn't have the time. Now that he was listening, he could hear the groans of injured men over the flapping sails.

He hurried to the side and froze, realizing he was expected to swing across the gap between the ships. Despite his obvious irritation with him, Porthos chuckled and nudged him forward.

"You can do it."

Aramis shook his head doubtfully but clasped the rope firmly in his hands. Taking a deep breath, he swung out over the waves.

Porthos couldn't hold back a small sigh of relief when Aramis landed easily on the far deck, turning to look back at him with an expression so adorably proud that Porthos had to fight to keep from beaming at him. He managed it with difficulty, knowing Gavillier's crew was still watching him closely, likely wondering how much of what they'd heard had been exaggerated.

Porthos would just have to show them the stories didn't nearly do him justice.

He swung across easily to join Aramis, reveling in the brief feeling of flying across empty space. It had been a long time since he'd boarded a ship like that.

This was not the time for reminiscing, however, and so he quickly followed Aramis across the soot-streaked deck to where the loudest groans were emanating from. There, they found a twisted wreck of metal and split wood. Several men lay amid the debris. Some were obviously already dead.

It took Porthos only a few moments to grasp what had happened. One of the cannons D'Artagnan had managed to set off had struck its counterpart on the other ship squarely, sending metal shrapnel and splinters through the men near it.

There was an older man working feverishly to sew up a long cut across one of the wounded men's backs, but a much younger sailor lay nearby, groaning weakly. Blood soaked the leg of his trousers.

Aramis did not hesitate, striding over to the downed boy and demanding a needle and thread. The bewildered crew members scrambled to obey the command, recognizing the authority of someone who knew what he was doing.

The surgeon, however, glanced up in surprise. His eyes narrowed when he caught sight of Aramis. "Leave him, man!" he called gruffly. "Save the ones who can be saved. The leg's lost anyway."

Porthos had moved to stand by Aramis when the man spoke, and he glanced now over his shoulder to where he was cutting away the blood soaked cloth to get at the wound. It was nasty, but not beyond his skill.

"I can save him," Aramis told the surgeon confidently, accepting the needle on of the sailors had found.

"You'd be better off saving those that are more useful to the crew." Aramis's head shot up and he glared at the surgeon, hands already threading the needle, but thankfully he didn't respond.

The boy came around when Aramis slid the needle into his skin, thrashing weakly until Porthos knelt down to hold him still while Aramis worked. Even soaked and exhausted, it only took his lover a few minutes to sew up the gaping slice through the boy's thigh. The stitches were neat and even, and he could hear the low murmur of appreciation through the watching crew.

This time Porthos did not hold back his proud smile, though it dimmed when he noticed the spiteful glare the surgeon shot at Aramis. He'd been shown up before his charges, and it was obvious he was not a man to take humiliation well.

Aramis wasn't making many friends here.

"What's going on here?" Gavillier's voice boomed from just behind them, and Porthos didn't miss the way Aramis jumped slightly at the proximity. He hadn't liked the interested look in Gavillier's eyes earlier, but he hoped his little display would be enough to keep the man away.

Gavillier stepped into view, glancing down at the boy Aramis had just finished with. "Did you do that?" Aramis nodded, holding his gaze steadily. "Good work."

Porthos opened his mouth to argue that it was more than just good, actually, but Gavillier had already turned from Aramis to look at him. "Well, Porthos, what do you think of my darling?" he asked loudly, placing odd emphasis on Porthos's name.

The crew members nearby glanced around at him with interest at the sound of it. Ah, that was why. Gavillier wanted to show him off.

"She's fighting fit," he told him, glancing around at the deck. Apart from the soot stains and damage from the battle, the brigantine was in fine condition. He guessed she weighed at least 150 tons and carried an armament of twenty guns.

An ideal privateer ship, perfect for taking down Spanish merchants. He told Gavillier as much.

The captain beamed with pride. "She's a fine lady, make no mistake. I just came to let you know your friends have boarded. The young one, what's his name? D'Art? He put your things in the first mate's cabin."

"D'Art?" Aramis asked, his voice strangled with laughter he fought to contain.

"That's what he said to call him," Gavillier frowned.

Porthos broke in before Aramis could start laughing. "Why'd he put my things there?"

Gavillier shrugged easily. "I told him to." Before Porthos could question him, he turned to Aramis. "He put your things in there as well. You'll need to gather them and take them down to the crew quarters. You can sleep there. I'm sure your young friend can show you the way. Athos has taken the quartermaster's cabin, naturally. You can follow me to your berth, Porthos."

Porthos clenched a fist as he rose, offering Aramis a hand up. He'd thought Gavillier might do something like this, but he'd hoped he made it clear that Aramis was to be left with him. Clearly that was not the case, but he didn't dare challenge the captain before his own crew.

Gavillier led the way down to the lower decks. Porthos was careful to keep himself between him and Aramis. Normally, such an act might have grated on Aramis's pride, but now he was silent, and Porthos was beginning to worry. He still hadn't stopped shivering.

Halfway across the deck, Porthos saw a sailor tangle one of the ropes he was holding with another. Sauvagne stepped forward and cracked him hard across the face. Porthos winced. Discipline on La Catin was strict.

They reached the cabin, and Porthos raised his eyebrows at the opulence. It was among the grandest cabins he'd ever seen on a ship. He wondered if Gavillier's was even more luxurious. There was even a real bed of sorts built into the wall, just beneath an actual window, complete with glass panes.

"This is nice," he said appreciatively, looking around. He saw his things piled beside Aramis's on the floor near the doorway.

"I say if you're going to live on a ship, you might as well live in style," Gavillier told him proudly before glancing over at Aramis. "You can take your things to the quarters on the deck below."

Aramis's eyes flicked to Porthos, and he nodded reluctantly. He hated letting Aramis go off on his own, but it was obvious Gavillier wasn't leaving quite yet. Aramis gathered his things, moving with a stiffness that made Porthos's stomach twist in sympathy, and vanished down the hall without a word.

In a desperate attempt to keep from following him, Porthos turned to Gavillier and said lightly, "What does your first mate think of this setup? Won't he expect the cabin?"

Gavillier shrugged carelessly. "He's got his own cabin from when he was second mate anyway. He can stay there. If he questions my decisions, he won't even get that."

Gavillier's cavalier attitude towards his crew was beginning to irk Porthos, but he knew that he hadn't been much different in his day. The Musketeers had taught him about loyalty. Gavillier had never learned that lesson.

"Well, I'll leave you to settle in," Gavillier said, clapping his hands together. "Tomorrow morning I'll expect you and your boys to report for duty at the dawn bell. They'd best work hard. I've no place for layabouts on this ship."

"They will," Porthos promised as Gavillier left, his heart sinking at the memory of Aramis's hopelessness in the rigging. He'd need to learn quickly. Sailors weren't known to be forgiving of mistakes.

Porthos remembered the man he'd seen struck on deck and vowed that no one would raise a hand to his brothers without answering for it. But for now, he had something else he needed to do.

Ignoring the cabin, he turned and headed along the hallway Aramis had disappeared down, passing privateers who gazed at him with open awe. The layout of the ship was straightforward, and it didn't take him long to find the crew quarters.

Aramis was digging through his things when Porthos entered, hopefully looking for a dry shirt. The room was otherwise deserted; the rest of the crew was on deck, preparing to make way.

He looked up when Porthos entered, lips quirking up in a smile. "Got rid of him, then?" he asked. Porthos chuckled as he wove through the rows of hammocks to where Aramis had placed his things.

"Yeah, I did," he told him, gathering up the clothes already strewn across the bed and stuffing them back into the pack before slinging the arquebus across his shoulder. "What were you looking for, anyway?" he asked, surveying the landscape of spare clothing.

"Athos used my best shirt for his bombs," Aramis sighed.

Porthos chuckled, shoving the last of Aramis's belongings back into his pack. "C'mon."

"I thought I was meant to be staying here?" Aramis asked, amusement in his voice, but he was still shivering, which worried Porthos.

"Captain said you gotta sleep here," Porthos grinned. "Didn't say anything about leaving all your stuff here to be picked through by that lot up above." He scooped Aramis's hat off the bed, glad D'Artagnan had remembered it, and jammed it on his own head before leading the way back to his cabin.

He shut the door firmly once Aramis was through, clicking the latch into place. He laid Aramis's things on the floor, placing the arquebus carefully on the desk even as Aramis swiped his hat back. Porthos lunged to reclaim it but pulled up short when Aramis tried to twist away and winced.

"Shit. How bad?" he asked, concern sweeping through him. "Let me see."

Aramis rolled his eyes but obligingly stripped off the damp shirt. Faint bruises were forming across his chest, and Porthos scowled.

Aramis caught sight of his expression and made a face. "It's not bad. Just irritating, really. I could finally breathe again." His voice was wistful.

Despite himself, Porthos's lips twitched at the tone, and Aramis smacked his arm. His hands were cold.

Porthos sobered immediately. "If you don't get warm soon, you'll end up sick to boot," he said seriously.

"Well, perhaps you should warm me up," Aramis murmured, his eyes flicking towards the locked door.

Porthos grinned broadly, already stepping forward to catch the ties on Aramis's trousers.

"That could be arranged."

Chapter Text

"Aramis. Wake up." Aramis groaned and tried to roll away from the insistent voice and the hand shaking his shoulder and promptly found himself on the floor in a painful heap.

"Ahh," he groaned as he remembered too late he was sleeping in a hammock. D'Artagnan's worried face appeared above him.

"Are you alright?" Without waiting for an answer, the boy added, "We need to hurry up or we'll be late to the deck. The dawn bell already rang and we missed breakfast."

Aramis accepted the offered hand as he clambered to his feet, cursing. He snatched his hat off the floor and quickly tied his sash around his waist as a belt before hurrying down the hallway after D'Artagnan, who was offensively awake for the early hour. He ran a hand through his hair, making a lame attempt to comb it into submission.

Just because he was among scoundrels didn't mean he needed to look like one.

They made it to the deck with just moments to spare, taking their places at the end of the line of men waiting for the captain to appear. Athos, who was leaning casually against the mast, shot Aramis a look, raising his eyebrows at his unusually disordered appearance.

Aramis narrowed his eyes in a glare. He didn't have a nice easy job that allowed him to laze about drinking wine all day. Athos smirked but dipped his head, conceding.

A moment later Captain Gavillier appeared at the other end of the line. Aramis noted with a distinct lack of surprise that Porthos was with him, looking pleased with himself. He'd tied his bandanna around his head and his gold earring looked as if it had been cleaned.

Aramis felt his face flush slightly. He also wasn't wearing a shirt.

Gavillier stopped by Sauvagne at the head of the line and spoke quietly with him for a moment before turning to clap Porthos on the back, steering him towards the captain's cabin. Gavillier glanced back as he went, and for a moment his eyes met Aramis's in a calculating stare. Then they both disappeared.

Sauvagne stepped forward and begun issuing brisk orders as he moved down the line. Men leaped to obey his commands, and one lad who was too slow took a blow to the face. Aramis glanced to the side to see Athos's reaction, but the older Musketeer had already disappeared below, as the quartermaster need not answer to the first mate.

At last Sauvagne reached D'Artagnan. He frowned at him. "What good is a pup like you?" he asked, sneering.

Aramis interceded before D'Artagnan could reply with anything hotheaded. "He's excellent in the rigging," he informed the massive man breezily. "Flies like a bird."

Sauvagne turned to look at him with a glare so cold that Aramis's hand immediately sough the comforting presence of his rapier before he remembered he and D'Artagnan had both left them below so they wouldn't interfere with their work.

At last Sauvagne turned back to D'Artagnan. "Fine. Go up the mainmast and ask for Adnet. He'll teach you the ropes."

D'Artagnan nodded and scampered off. Sauvagne stared at Aramis as the lad disappeared above, and Aramis felt unexpected malevolence in his gaze. "You c'n start by re-tarring the ropes along the port side railing," he grunted at last. "Tar's in the hold. Then you c'n swab the mess you'll leave from the deck. When that's done, see if Ebert needs anything done."

Aramis's heart sank at the list of duties, but he nodded, determined to prove he wasn't useless. Thankfully Porthos had already explained about the need to keep the ropes well tarred, so he knew what he was meant to be doing.

He found the supplies easily enough and got to work. It wasn't long before his hands and clothes were covered in sticky black tar. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the work got harder. The tar grew slicker and stickier, and his boots lost their traction on the slippery deck. Grimly, he vowed to go barefoot the next day like D'Artagnan had.

Sweat stuck his shirt to his shoulders, but he couldn't bring himself to take it off, preferring the heat to the too interested stares of the crew. Thankfully his hat bought him some protection from the beating sun.

Unfortunately, it also seemed to attract unwanted attention. A few crew members walked by and Aramis caught one gesturing to his hat and snickering. Snickering.

The nerve.

Didn't these men know his hat was the height of fashion in Paris? He should be laughing at them, not the other way around.

This happened a few more times over the course of the morning until at last Aramis heard one of the men making an overloud comment about the practicality of his feather. He straightened and cast an icy glare at the offender, who didn't even have to good grace to look ashamed as he walked away.

The sun was beating down furiously when Aramis at last finished tarring the ropes. He glanced down at himself in disgust, wondering how on earth he'd ever get clean again, when he noticed the black spatters of tar all across the deck behind him. They trailed down the whole port side.

Aramis groaned. He still had to clean that up before he could clean himself.

Wearily, he rose to his feet and went in search of a bucket and mop, but all he found was some sort of scrubbing brush. He'd have to kneel on the baking deck to clean the tar off.

Cursing the sun and the sea and Sauvagne, he slumped down and got to work. Idly he wondered where Porthos was.

Probably sipping wine with Gavillier, he thought, unable to keep the bitterness from his thoughts. He was glad Porthos wasn't working like this, but he would've preferred joining him in comfort if he could.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been working when a shadow fell across him. He looked up, head spinning slightly from the heat, to find Gavillier leaning over him, a confused frown marring his face. Aramis looked around him hopefully, but Porthos was nowhere to be seen.

Gavillier glanced around, presumably looking for Sauvagne, but the burly first mate was at the far end of the ship, shouting at some poor soul for tying the jib sail down wrong.

"What are you doing?" Gavillier asked at last, peering down at Aramis with something oddly like concern.

"Swabbing the deck," Aramis replied, watching him warily.

Gavillier snorted. "I can see that. But why are you doing the worst jobs?" He leaned closer, eyes warm with invitation as he looked Aramis over, lingering on his hands. Aramis drew back but Gavillier stepped closer.

"There's no need for you to slave away in this hot sun. I'm sure those soft hands could be put to better use," Gavillier purred. Aramis jerked back and levelled a furious glare at the man, feeling unease twist into disgust in his gut.

"I'd rather scrub floors," he spat.

Gavillier's lips pulled back in disdain, baring uneven teeth. "I guess that's all you're good for, being on your knees," he snarled, brushing past Aramis with enough force to send him sprawling across the deck.

Aramis scrambled upright, fury boiling through his veins and making him feel even hotter. How dare Gavillier insinuate something like that?

There was a thump beside as D'Artagnan dropped from the rigging. "What was that about?"

Aramis was on the verge of telling him when he paused, thinking hard. If he told D'Artagnan, he'd have to tell Porthos, and Porthos would be furious. Friend or no, Aramis was certain he'd challenge Gavillier, and to issue such a challenge while trapped on a ship surrounded by men loyal to Gavillier would be a death sentence for them all.

D'Artagnan was still watching him with earnest concern, so he plastered a smile on his face and said, "Oh, it was nothing. The captain is just a busy man, that's all."

"But what did he want?" D'Artagnan pressed.

Aramis hesitated. "He was just seeing how we were settling in."

"Oh." D'Artagnan's guileless face cleared as he accepted the lie. "That was nice of him."

"Yes, it was," Aramis said with false cheer. He prayed that Gavillier would accept the rejection and leave him alone now, so this would never become an issue again.

"Aren't you supposed to be up there?" he added, pointing up towards the rigging in the hope of distracting his young friend. D'Artagnan smiled broadly and leapt onto the railing, scrambling easily up into the rigging. Chuckling, Aramis returned to the deck.

He finished not long after and realized he was starving, having forgotten to eat all day, but Sauvagne had told him to head straight to Ebert when he was done. Aramis frowned. He must be exceptionally slow. He'd have to skip lunch to make up for his poor pace.

He hurried to Ebert's cabin below decks. The surgeon hardly spared him more than a hostile glance before shoving another bucket at him and ordering him to wash down the tables used for operating and then mop the floor when he was done.

Ebert himself vanished into the secondary cabin where his personal quarters must be, for a few minutes later Aramis heard loud snoring echoing from the room.

Pausing a moment to weigh the risks, Aramis decided to take a quick break and use some of the water to try to clean the tar from his hands and face, where it had smeared every time he'd tried to wipe the sweat form his cheeks. He was only partially successful, and at last he resigned himself to looking like a coal miner for the rest of the evening.

He worked as quickly as he could after that, the cooler air below decks refreshing him slightly, but he was still working when the dinner bell rang. He finished hurriedly, knowing even as he did so that he'd left part of the floor slightly filthy, but he was starving and hoped to finish it later.

Just as he was about to leave to search for the dining cabin, Sauvagne appeared in the doorway, his hulking form blocking the exit. His eyes drifted lazily from Aramis to the unfinished section of the floor.

"What's this?" he asked menacingly. Aramis didn't even have time to answer before Sauvagne crowded forward. "I don't know what it was like back on land, scum, but on this ship you don't eat until the job is done."

Aramis nodded reluctantly and had just turned back to grab the mop when Sauvagne's hand flashed out, knuckles thudding heavily until his stomach once, and then a second time.

He doubled over, wheezing, as Sauvagne sneered. "Let that be a lesson to you, scum. Learn to work faster, or there'll be more." He vanished down the corridor without another word.

Aramis gasped as he regained his breath, reaching for the mop with a sinking feeling. He had been right; his work was beneath that of the rest of the crew. He finished the floor quickly, but his appetite had vanished, and he slunk off to his berth, vowing to do better tomorrow.

He collapsed into his hammock, wondering idly how Porthos's day had been.

Porthos leaned back in his chair, chuckling at Gavillier's tale of a night raid gone hilariously wrong. He'd been invited to dine with Gavillier and some of his officers in his cabin that night, and he'd accepted. He'd even managed to wheedle some of Athos's wine to bring to the table as a gift, and it had gone a long way towards loosening the tongues of Sauvagne and the other mates.

Gavillier had asked Athos as well, but the older Musketeer had ignored the rules of courtesy and declined, preferring to eat with the rest of the crew in the mess. Porthos had flinched at the insult, but he was glad someone would be looking after Aramis and D'Artagnan.

The thought of Aramis had him sitting back up in his seat, wondering if it would be rude to leave when the story was over. He'd spent a long day in Gavillier's cabin, reminiscing about old times and laughing about life while checking over navigational charts and debating the best route to reach the colonies.

It had been good fun, and the stream of crew members that had arrived throughout the day had been amusing. All had come with fair reasons, but it was obvious most were hoping to size him up, decide if he was as good as Gavillier kept boasting. So Porthos had grinned and casually flexed his muscles, and been sure each one left with expressions of great interest.

Couldn't hurt to spread the legend.

Still, he'd been so busy that he hadn't had a chance to speak to any of the others, and he was worried about how Aramis would have found his first day of real work aboard a ship, especially with bruised ribs and a distinct lack of seamanship.

That thought had him shifting uncomfortably in the chair, unpleasantly aware of his over-full stomach. Courtesy be damned; he'd make his excuses once Gavillier finished talking.

Gavillier's story ended with a tense escape through a brothel that ended with one of his men carrying a prostitute with him down the back alley. Porthos laughed obligingly and rose, groaning good-naturedly at the pressure in his stomach.

"My friend," Gavillier called beseechingly, "Surely you aren't leaving us so soon?"

Porthos waved a hand amicably. "Fun as this has been, some of us are still used to going to sleep before the sun rises," he said wryly, earning a few laughs. "I'd best be off or I'll be useless in the mornin'."

"Ah, you make me sad," Gavillier sighed, but he rose and offered his hand in a gesture of farewell. Porthos had to shake hands with most of the table before he made it out at last, picking his way over to the railing to look out over the still water.

He stood for a moment, transfixed by the stars reflected on the water. Aramis would love to see this.

Porthos was just about to leave in search of him when the bell marking midnight tolled from the front of the ship. He frowned; he hadn't meant to spend so long with Gavillier. Aramis would almost certainly be asleep.

He set off anyway, hoping at least Athos would be awake. He debated waking Aramis to come see the water, but wasn't sure it was the best idea if his lover was already exhausted from a long day of work. Perhaps he'd check with Athos and see if the older Musketeer knew how the day had gone.

To his relief, Athos was in fact still awake, leaning against the wall in his room with a bottle of wine in one hand and his pistol in the other, which he whipped up when Porthos pushed through the door. Porthos raised an eyebrow when he saw the weapon, and Athos shrugged.

"I'm waiting for someone to try and steal my wine," he explained, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. Deciding to pick his battles, Porthos ignored it.

"How was it, today?" he asked casually, dropping into the room's only chair that Athos had for some reason decided not to use.

Athos smiled wryly. "Why not ask what you really want to know?"

Porthos chuckled. "Fine. Have you seen Aramis?"

Athos took a long swig of wine before answering. "Not since this morning."

"How about D'Artagnan?"

This time Athos nodded. "He was at dinner. He hadn't seen Aramis since the afternoon."

"Aramis wasn't at dinner?" Porthos asked, concern worming its way through his chest.

Athos shrugged. "I didn't see him. Though I imagine he must have been in his bed when D'Artagnan made it back to the crew quarters, or he'd certainly have been in here demanding we go find him." He took another swig of wine. "Which I'm hoping you're about to do, or I suppose I'll have to."

Porthos rose immediately. "I'm going."

He was almost to the door when Athos voice called him back. He hadn't moved, but he was holding out a bottle of wine that seemed to have materialized from thin air. "Give him this. He'll probably need it."

Porthos accepted the bottle gratefully and stalked down the hallway, wishing he'd asked Athos what he had meant by that. He knew Aramis was a bit hopeless on a ship. That must have been all.

He entered the room silently, stepping softly across floorboards that creaked gently beneath his weight. Everyone seemed to be asleep. Snores echoed across the enclosed space, and Porthos wondered, not for the first time, how anyone could ever sleep in communal areas.

He found D'Artagnan first. The lad was hanging half out of his hammock, one arm trailing toward the ground on one side while his head tipped precariously over the other. Chuckling to himself, Porthos gently grabbed his arm and guided it back onto the hammock before he upset the whole thing and went crashing to the floor. That was always a rude awakening

Moving past, he tried to pick out Aramis's sleeping form in the gloom, unable to remember precisely which hammock he'd chosen the day before. Finally he found him, curled on his side in the gently swaying cocoon of fabric.

Porthos approached, wincing when his foot found a particularly creaky plank. Aramis didn't move. In the faint light of the lanterns hanging in the hallway, Porthos could only just make out Aramis's features.

He frowned. Why was Aramis covered in tar? Tarring was a long, exhausting task usually given as a punishment duty. From the looks of things, he'd done quite a bit of it on his own. The blanket had become tangled around his waist, so Porthos could see that his shirt was as blackened as his face and hands.

He reached out and let his fingers trail along Aramis's cheek, the sticky tar residue catching at his skin. Aramis twitched slightly and murmured something that sounded like Spanish before settling. "Para. Déjame solo."

Porthos heard the agitation in his voice and pulled his hand away, frowning when Aramis quieted as he broke contact. Aramis only spoke Spanish in his sleep when he was having nightmares, which were usually brought on by exhaustion.

Now Porthos was even more concerned about the fact that Aramis hadn't eaten. He swore he'd speak to Gavillier tomorrow about giving Aramis easier duties in light of his inexperience. He was also going to be coming down to these quarters first thing tomorrow and drag Aramis down to the mess himself if that's what it took. It had been Porthos who'd accepted Gavillier's offer, despite Athos's approval, but he'd be damned if Aramis would suffer for it.

Tenderly, he leaned down and brushed a kiss to Aramis's forehead, not caring in that moment whether anyone saw. Tomorrow he would make sure Aramis was taken care of.

Whatever it took.

Chapter Text

Porthos snuck into the crew quarters before the sun rose the next day, careful to arrive far enough before the dawn bell that no one else would be up. He crept stealthily to Aramis's hammock and reached out to wake him before hesitating. He really hated to rouse him when he'd seemed so exhausted the night before.

But Aramis would truly hate it if anyone else saw him before he'd had a chance to clean himself up a bit. Tar still smeared his face and shirt, long dark streaks marring his sunburnt skin.

Porthos laid a hand on Aramis's arm, shaking him gently. "Aramis. Aramis, wake up."

A moment later Aramis awoke with a start, flinching away from Porthos's hand with enough force that the hammock began to tip alarmingly. Porthos reached out and grabbed Aramis's shoulder, holding him steady and preventing him from toppling gracelessly to the floor.

"Porthos?" Aramis whispered, his voice layered with something he couldn't quite read.

"Who else would it be?" Porthos chuckled softly, still draped half across Aramis to keep the hammock steady. Aramis glanced away. "What was that about, eh? You coulda broken your neck." His kept his tone light, teasing, well aware that Aramis had been having nightmares.

Aramis gave him a wan smile. "It's just this damn thing. It's unsettling to wake up and feel your bed move."

"I'd a thought you'd be used to it all by now," Porthos teased gently as he helped Aramis unwind himself from the tangled material.

"I suppose I am," Aramis said, his voice oddly subdued. Then he caught sight of his shirt and groaned. "This is a disgrace." He seemed to remember suddenly that Porthos was in the room, for he whirled around, horror dawning on his face as his hands flew to his besmirched cheeks.

"Relax," Porthos grinned, tossing him the spare shirt he'd brought from Aramis's things. "I've got some water in my cabin. You c'n have a wash."

Aramis's face broke into a true smile. "Excellent," he whispered, following Porthos down the hallway with his shirt clenched in his hands.

They reached his cabin without encountering anyone, and Porthos was careful to lock the door behind him as he entered. Aramis had zeroed in on the bucket of water he'd placed under the small mirror on the wall, an unusual luxury on a ship.

"There's soap, too," he called hurriedly when it looked like Aramis was about to fling himself into the water headfirst. The smile he got in return was dazzling. He had to fight to remember that now was not a good time for that.

Aramis was already merrily splashing away in the bucket, soapy water trailing in puddles over the floor, but Porthos didn't care a whit. He turned away, hoping Aramis wouldn't notice, and quickly concealed the surprise he'd found behind his back when he glanced around once more.

To his chagrin, Aramis had managed to change his shirt in the few moments that Porthos's back was turned. He cursed good-naturedly, flashing Aramis a grin. "Oh, did I miss the show?"

Aramis threw the cast off shirt at his head but smiled, looking pleased. Then he noticed the hand Porthos was carefully keeping behind his back. "What have you got there?"

Grinning hugely, Porthos produced his prize. Aramis's eyes widened at the orange fruit sitting in the center of his palm. "Where did you get that out here?" he asked delightedly as Porthos pressed it into his hand.

"Fruit doesn't keep long at sea. You've got to eat it quick. So I, ah, helped myself to the stores," he admitted, winking roguishly. "I've got more, too."

Perhaps he had an ulterior motive in giving Aramis the orange. His lover's focus on the fruit was intense, his surgeon's hands precise as they pared off the rind to expose the juicy flesh within.

Porthos's mouth went dry when Aramis caught his enraptured gaze as he tasted the slice. Aramis's gleeful eyes fluttered close and the low noise of pleasure that he made was unbelievably erotic.

"Here," he said huskily, passing the wine, "Athos said its sweetness goes with oranges, 'cause they're both Spanish." He'd actually woken Athos to ask him that this morning and nearly been shot for his efforts.

Aramis seemed loath to stop eating, almost tentatively reaching for the bottle. When he tipped it back, a look of complete surprise opened his handsome features that made Porthos laugh.

Delight colored his cried. "That complements it perfectly!"

"You say that as if Athos ever gets wine wrong."

"True, but this is… it's like an art," Aramis said wonderingly, and then held out another slice of orange and the wine. "Try it."

He chuckled and held up his grog, "Fine, thanks."

Aramis regarded the cloudy bottle of bitter alcohol and looked as if he had sucked on a lemon – another fruit that Porthos couldn't wait to show Aramis, especially if he thought he would bite into it with the same relish that he could an orange.

"These are wasted on pirates," Aramis sighed happily as he almost daintily bit at the flesh. The juice still managed to trickle down his chin, and Porthos had to use all of his self-restraint to not lick the taste of orange and wine from Aramis's lips. He knew that Aramis had another tiring day ahead and he didn't want to exhaust him this early in the morning.

He dragged Aramis along the corridor to the mess hall, chuckling when Aramis demanded they go back for his hat first, which they'd forgotten in the crew quarters. They finally made it to the mess and Porthos shoved Aramis in the direction of the table where he could see Athos and D'Artagnan, gathering a pair of plates and heaping them high with food, determined that today Aramis would get enough to eat.

He wound his way through the jostling crowd to a chorus of greetings and plopped down beside Aramis, ignoring the skeptical glance his lover tossed at his overburdened plate. Nevertheless, he began eating immediately, even going so far as to steal the bread from Porthos's own plate with a teasing wink.

Athos had a bottle of wine beside his plate, and he kept darting suspicious glances at D'Artagnan, whose hand was resting nearby. Even as Porthos watched, he took a long swig from the bottle, ignoring the boy's envious look.

D'Artagnan finished first and immediately launched into a lengthy speech about the dashing effect an eye patch gave the wearer. "It would make me look far more dangerous, don't you think?" he asked excitedly.

"It'll make you look like you're such a terrible fighter you took your own eye out," Athos remarked dryly.

"That beggar in the Court of Miracles had both eyes," D'Artagnan argued. "So it's really just for show."

Behind him, one of the older crew members turned slowly in his seat. Porthos could see the black patch covering his left eye. Solemnly, he reached out and tapped D'Artagnan's shoulder. When the boy turned around, the old man reached up slowly and lifted the patch, revealing a dark, empty eye socket surrounded by jagged scar tissue.

D'Artagnan yelped and almost fell out of his chair. Aramis's eyes widened in stunned horror as he set down his fork in a final sort of way. The old man grinned wickedly and turned away without a word.

Aramis and D'Artagnan exchanged looks and began conversing in low, urgent tones, dashing glances at the old man's back. Porthos caught D'Artagnan asking, "Does that mean wooden legs are real too?" and rolled his eyes.

Athos ignored the hushed conversation, taking a long swig from his bottle of wine. Porthos was fairly certain he'd kept himself in a constant state of inebriation since boarding the ship.

"You know, if you keep drinking like that, you'll drain your stock before we ever reach the colonies," Porthos said, grinning.

Athos leveled a steady stare at him. "There are some things I don't want to see."

Before Porthos could ask Athos what he meant, D'Artagnan leapt to his feet, gazing across the mess hall towards the door. "Was that Adnet that just left? Did you see? He promised to show me how to tie the topsail down before the dawn bell." Without waiting for a response, he dashed from the room.

"Someone's making friends," Aramis commented, and there was a trace of bitterness in his tone.

Porthos frowned, glancing at him. "What's wrong?"

Aramis sighed heavily. "It's nothing, really. It's just-" he hesitated, looking torn. "I don't think the crew likes me."

"Hey, I'm sure it's not too bad. They'll warm up. You just gotta do whatever they tell you to in the meantime."

Aramis stiffened oddly at his words. "What, anything?"

"Well, yeah," Porthos said, puzzled. Some of the jobs were quite unpleasant, but surely Aramis could see they were a small price to pay to earn the respect of the crew? But Aramis was still watching him strangely.

Across the table, Athos's head had risen, staring at Porthos. For a moment, the drunken haze over his bloodshot eyes cleared, and it looked as if he might say more. He glanced over at Aramis, as if checking he wasn't listening, but before he could speak he was bumped from behind.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but is there any chance at a bit of wine?" a young privateer asked hopefully. Athos reared back as if struck.

Porthos vaguely hoped he might hiss at the lad, but he simply said stiffly, "I'm afraid not," and rose unsteadily to his feet.

"Wait a second, what were you going to say?" Porthos asked curiously, but Athos shot him a blank look and turned away, muttering something about 'going to check on his wine.'

"What was that all about?" he asked in bewilderment, turning to Aramis, but at that moment the dawn bell tolled and Aramis glanced up towards the deck wearily.

"I'd better go," he said, rising to his feet with a sigh. "Wouldn't want to be late."

"Hang on, I'll walk with you," Porthos said, clambering up beside him, but an older man suddenly appeared at his elbow.

"Captain Gavillier requests that you join 'im in 'is quarters, sir," the man said, tugging his forelock respectfully.

"Tell him I'll be there in a moment," Porthos said, turning back to Aramis only to find his lover already pushing his way towards the exit, heading for the deck.

Porthos sighed and followed the man back to the captain's cabin, glancing back just as Aramis vanished up down the hallway.

He had to find a way to spend more time with him. This forced distance was driving him insane.

The second day was harder than the first. Pain sprang up in his back and shoulders that solidified to a deep ache as he recoiled a mass of ropes that had been left poorly stored in the hold. The thick rope caught painfully at his callouses. There was hardly any light, and his lantern was not nearly enough to penetrate the cloying darkness. It reminded him unpleasantly of his time in Calais.

There was a scuttling sound in the darkness behind him and he whirled, imagining vicious rats watching him with beady eyes. But the sound came closer, echoing like muffled footsteps, and Aramis grabbed the lantern and thrust it towards the darkness.

A lopsided shape materialized in the gloom and Aramis leapt in surprise. "Who's there?" he demanded, heart beating over fast. "Who are you?"

"Who are you?" a youthful voice asked in return. "I don't remember seeing you on board before." A moment later a young man limped into the circle of light, watching Aramis with interest.

Aramis relaxed immediately. "I remember you. The lad with the wounded leg. How are my stitches holding up?"

The boy shot him a startled look. In the faint light, Aramis could see he was younger than D'Artagnan even, face retaining some of the roundness of childhood. His hair and eyes were very dark, and Aramis smirked, knowing he'd grow up to be very popular with the women at port.

"Your stitches?" the boy asked, eyes widening. "Ha! I knew old Ebert couldn't a done anythin' so neat. Thought I was a dead man when I saw where I got hit." He stepped forward and grasped Aramis's hand, shaking it hard in both his own. "The name's Belén. I owe you my life!"

Aramis smiled at the exuberance only found in the young. "I was happy to help," he murmured, pleased to meet a friendly face at last. "Belén, you said? That's a Spanish name, if I'm not mistaken."

The boy nodded, looking pleased. "My father was Spanish. He met my mother on a trading voyage and stayed in France until the day he died."

"So you speak the language, then?" Aramis asked eagerly. It was rare that he got the opportunity to converse freely in Spanish, but to his disappointment Belén shook his head.

"I never learned much more than the basics," he confessed sheepishly. "Always wished Papá had taught me a bit more."

Inspiration hit Aramis like a bolt of lightning. "I could teach you!"

Belén's eyes shot up to meet his. "Really?" he asked excitedly. "That would be amazing!"

"We can start now, while I'm fixing this rope—wait, what are you doing down here? You should be in Ebert's sickroom."

Belén shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "The surgeon said I wouldn't be any good to the ship with my leg like this and told me to stay down here until I recovered because he didn't want to be bothered."

Fury pulsed through Aramis at the thought of a doctor abandoning his patient. "So you haven't been treated since they sent you down here?" Belén shook his head. "Best let me take a look at it then. Hold this."

He thrust the lantern at the boy and motioned for him to sit down. Belén's movements were stiff, but not overly so considering the severity of the wound. "Ebert should have checked this," he muttered angrily as he peeled the bandages away from the wound. He couldn't see any discoloration at least, which was encouraging.

"Ebert thinks a man is only a man as long as he's useful," Belén shrugged. "And the captain agrees with him, so there wasn't anything else I could do but come down here and hope for the best."

Aramis pulled the last of the bandages away and breathed a sigh of relief. His stitches had held up well, and the skin around them was clean and healthy looking. "Well, you're very lucky my needlework is so good. There's no sign of infection. Keep off it for a few days and it should heal nicely."

The look Belén gave him was so grateful it made his chest ache. "You'd make a better surgeon than Ebert," he said matter-of-factly. "That's probably why he doesn't like you."
"Who said he doesn't like me?" Aramis asked as he carefully rewound the bandages.

Belén shrugged. "Some of my friends have been bringing me food and they said Ebert doesn't like you. You're obviously better than him. That's probably why."

"Lately I don't think anyone likes me much," Aramis sighed.

"Well, they won't like you any more if you don't finish this rope," Belén said practically. "I could help, if you'd like. I can sit on the barrel and feed you more to coil and you can teach me Spanish."

Aramis smiled at the boy's enthusiasm, so like D'Artagnan's, and began the lesson. Together they managed to finish much faster than Aramis could have done alone.

"I'd best get back," he said at last, surveying the neatly coiled pile. "I'll try to come back tomorrow, or send someone down with some wine for the pain." Belén smiled and called his farewells after him as Aramis hurried up the ladder. He might still have time to get to the mess hall for lunch.

He was just heading down the hallway where Porthos's cabin was when someone stepped out in front of him, blocking the way forward.

Sauvagne.

"Where have you been?" he asked brusquely. "You should've been finished ages ago!"

Aramis opened his mouth to reply, but Sauvagne shook his head. "I don't want to hear it. Follow me."

He grabbed Aramis's arm with bruising force and led the way into Porthos's cabin. Aramis noticed with a sinking feeling that there were chalky stains on the floor near the mirror where he'd spilled soap earlier.

"I wonder how this could have happened, eh?" Sauvagne asked in a cold tone that told Aramis he knew exactly who was responsible. "Best clean it up before the captain finds out. He's not as lenient as I."

Aramis knew he shouldn't, but his growling stomach drove him to ask, "Could I do it right after the meal, sir?"

Sauvagne turned an icy gaze on him. "I think you ate enough at breakfast," he said coolly. Without another word, he vanished down the hallway.

Aramis glanced down dispiritedly at the water stains. At least Sauvagne hadn't hit him, and if he'd taken as long below as the first mate had said, he would probably have deserved it. He'd just have to work harder.

Porthos's advice echoed in his head. You just gotta do whatever they tell you to. Well. If that's what it took.

He had to scrub the floor viciously to rid it of the soapy residue, but at last he managed it. The lingering scent of oranges had faded as he scrubbed, and he sighed at the loss. Just the scent of the delicious fruit had sent a pang through his chest, a fruitless yearning.

He wanted to see Porthos.

But he knew that was a hopeless desire. He was kept too busy, and the only chances he'd have to see Porthos were if his lover escaped Gavillier's greedy clutches and sought him out.

Sighing, he rose wearily and went down the hallway to put away his bucket and mop. When he returned, the door was slightly open, even though he was certain he'd closed it, and his heart leapt at the thought that perhaps Porthos had returned.

It wasn't Porthos, though after the initial disappointment wore off the amusement almost made up for it. It was D'Artagnan, standing in front of Porthos's small mirror and twisting this way and that, admiring his reflection. A hat was perched atop his head, and Aramis choked back a laugh.

D'Artagnan whirled guilty at the sound, relaxing when he saw it was only Aramis. Aramis met his gaze steadily and slowly shook his head. D'Artagnan scowled and whipped the hat off.

"Where've you been all day?" he asked, tossing the hat aside. "It's almost dinner time and I haven't seen you since call this morning!"

Aramis looked at him, startled. He hadn't realized it was so late. D'Artagnan didn't seem to notice his surprise. "We should head to the mess hall early," he said eagerly. "Then we'll be first in line!"

Aramis smiled at the lad's energy. He would dearly love an early dinner. He turned and led the way out to the corridor, heart sinking when he noticed Sauvagne striding down it towards them. D'Artagnan must have noticed his sudden discomfort, for he darted forward between them and grabbed Aramis's arm.

"Come on, it's dinner time," he said loudly, completely ignoring Sauvagne. To Aramis's relief, the large first mate did not follow them.

"I need to swing by the quarters first," he said as they walked. "I'd like to grab my boots before dinner." D'Artagnan rolled his eyes but did not protest to being hauled along.

He waited at the door while Aramis's hurried over to his hammock, plopping down on it to pull on his boots. Something rolled out from under the pillow and bumped his side. He picked it up and grinned delightedly.

It was an orange. Lightly scratched into the peel was a fleur-de-lis.

Heart considerably lighter, he strode back towards the mess hall, the prospect of seeing Porthos stripping the aches from his body.

Chapter Text

"I need to meet with my men this morning," Porthos told Sauvagne when he saw the mate go past his door, heading to the mess hall. "Can you send them down right away? I may need to keep them for a while."

Sauvagne nodded and continued on his way, and Porthos returned to his cabin, wishing he could just go and fetch Aramis himself. He'd been on the verge of it when he realized that striding into the crew quarters first thing in the morning for everyone to see to whisk Aramis away from morning duties might breed resentment among the others.

Sighing, he wandered the room idly until the door flew open and D'Artagnan bounded in the room. Athos followed more sedately.

"Where's Aramis?" he asked when his lover didn't follow them in.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "He was still talking to Sauvagne when I left the mess." Beside him, Athos's eyes darted up, narrowing with some unreadable warning, but then the door opened again and Aramis was strolling through, oddly breathless.

Porthos snorted. Had he run to his cabin? He crossed easily and caught Aramis up in his arms, ignoring D'Artagnan's groan of protest and Athos's exasperated sigh.

Aramis chuckled against his lips, but broke the kiss first, pulling away sharply when Porthos tried to pull him closer against his chest. The fact that D'Artagnan had started groaning so loudly it could be heard in the hall probably had something to do with it.

"So, why are we all here?" Athos asked dryly once Porthos had reluctantly released his grip on Aramis's waist.

Porthos shrugged. "Thought it might be good to have a plan for when we catch up to Reynard."

Before Athos could say anything, D'Artagnan cut in. "I hope you're planning to feed us, since you've made us miss breakfast."

Laughing, Porthos grabbed a sack off the bed and tossed it to D'Artagnan. It hit his chest with a satisfying thud. "There ya go, you scavenger."

Aramis wandered over to peer inside the sack and emerged with a yelp of delight, oranges and bread clutched in his hands.

"Where do you get this?" D'Artagnan asked, his mouth already full. "The food in the mess is nothing like this!"

"Perks o' being friends with the captain," Porthos shrugged. Aramis stiffened slightly at his words, but before he could ask what was wrong he was distracted by D'Artagnan suddenly spitting out the orange he stuffed in his mouth.

"You're supposed to take the peel off first," Athos supplied helpfully as Porthos howled with laughter.

D'Artagnan glared balefully at them all until Aramis offered him an orange he had already peeled. His glare softened to a grin when Athos produced a pair of wine bottles from within his jacket, which he still insisted on wearing despite the heat.

They spent a good half hour drinking wine and eating oranges and the soft white bread Porthos had nabbed from Gavillier's table. At last he set aside the empty bottle, smiling at the satisfied expressions on his companions' faces.

"Now can we talk business?" he asked D'Artagnan, but one look at the lad's face told him there was very little chance of that. He'd zeroed in on the half open cupboard on the wall like a cat to cream.

"Is that a bandanna?" he asked excitedly, leaping to his feet and heading straight to the cupboard. Without waiting for permission he began rummaging through the extra clothes Gavillier had insisted Porthos take.

A few moments later he emerged with several lengths of fabric over his arms. "Aramis, Athos, look!" he called eagerly. He dashed to the table and looked down at his arms, considering. Finally he deposited a dark blue bandanna in Athos's lap.

Athos looked at in with an expression of faint disgust. "What am I meant to do with this?"

"Put it on!" D'Artagnan demanded, already pulling a second from the pile to toss at Aramis. This one was a faded emerald. Porthos liked it immediately.

Aramis must have noticed his interest, for he picked it up with a smile. Athos was still regarding his as though it were a snake that might bite him.

"Come on, Athos!" D'Artagnan said impatiently, tying the final knot in his own scarlet bandanna. "Aramis is going to wear his, won't you, Aramis?"

Aramis flashed a smile at Porthos that sent a dash of fire through his chest. "Only if Porthos will show me how to tie it properly."

Porthos rose, grinning, and took the long length of green fabric from Aramis's hands, winding it carefully about in his own until it was twisted properly. Oh, the fun they could have with this if they could only get a moment to themselves.

Gently, he wound the bandanna around Aramis's head, careful that none of the wild curls got trapped in the knots. At last he stepped back, admiring the way the deep green contrasted with Aramis's tan skin.

Aramis smiled back at him, his attention flicking suddenly to the left of Porthos's eyes. "Is that new?" he asked curiously, hand grazing Porthos's jaw as he reached out to touch the heavy gold earring hanging from his ear.

"Ahhh, yeah, it is," Porthos admitted, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. "Gavillier gave it to me."

Aramis frowned, but D'Artagnan's hand was on his shoulder, spinning him around to get a closer look. "I want one! Aramis, will you pierce my ear?" he asked eagerly.

"Absolutely not!" Aramis said quickly, but the lad was not to be dissuaded.

"Porthos, will you?" He gave him such a pleading look that Porthos's next defense crumbled.

"I think there's a needle in the cupboard," he said, guiltily ignoring the disbelieving stares Aramis and Athos were now shooting him.

D'Artagnan appeared a moment later with a needle and a second gold earring, much smaller than the heavy hoop Porthos was wearing.

"You'll want to dip that in alcohol first!" Aramis burst in, his natural instinct overcoming his disapproval.

Obediently Porthos sloshed the last of the wine over both needle and earring despite Athos's muttered curses about wine-wasters.

"You ready for this?" he asked, holding the needle against D'Artagnan's ear. The boy nodded determinedly and promptly fainted the moment the needle entered his flesh.

Porthos quickly threaded the earring through before Athos reached over and slapped D'Artagnan's cheek, hard.

The boy sat up with a start, cheeks as red as his bandanna. "Well, that wasn't so bad," he said with desperate airiness. "Who's next? Athos?"

"Put that needle near me and you won't taste a drop of wine until we make land."

"Aramis, then?" D'Artagnan asked, undeterred.

"No, thank you," Aramis said hurriedly. Porthos tried to hide his disappointment. He'd already been picturing the way a gold or silver earring would look amid Aramis's curls.

"Ahhh, cowards, the lot of you," D'Artagnan teased, turning back to continue raiding Porthos's clothes. He pulled a large, floppy brimmed hat from the mess and went to set it upon his head, but before it even touched his bandanna Aramis just shook his head.

D'Artagnan scowled and tossed it back into the cupboard.

"Are we actually going to discuss a plan?" Athos asked dryly. "Because if not, I'd prefer to return to my quarters."

Porthos glanced at D'Artagnan, who had found a curved scimitar from God knows where in the tiny cupboard. "I suppose not," he sighed.

"Then I am leaving." Athos rose and departed, nodding a farewell to Porthos and letting his hand drop on Aramis's shoulder on his way out.

"I'm leaving too," Aramis said, and Porthos tried to disguise the hurt he felt flash across his face. Aramis smiled gently at him. "There's something I promised to do," he explained softly. He pocketed some of the oranges and kissed Porthos goodbye before heading to the door.

"You've got until the noon bell," Porthos called after him, cursing the bad luck that Aramis had somewhere to be on a morning he'd stolen him away. "Sauvagne will be looking for you both by then."

Aramis glanced back, and there was an odd expression in his eyes that had Porthos half stepping after him. A clatter from behind diverted his attention as D'Artagnan managed to upend the entire cupboard, and by the time Porthos turned back, Aramis was gone.

Well. He'd just have to find some other way to steal some time with him.

Aramis hurried down to the hold, ducking into the shadows whenever he heard footsteps approaching. Porthos had said they were free until the noon bell, but he wouldn't put it past Sauvagne to send him off on some task or another if he found out the meeting was over.

Besides, he had things to do.

The lingering regret at disappointing Porthos faded in the face of the pure, shocked joy on Belén's face when Aramis handed over the stolen oranges.

"Where did you get these?" the boy asked reverently, staring at the bright fruit which seemed to almost glow in the dim light. "I've never even touched one except to load them up for the captain!"

"I have friends in high places," Aramis said airily, smiling at the gratitude in Belén's eyes. The boy peeled the fruit gently, perfuming the small room they'd found to hide away in with the delicious scent of oranges.

Just as he was about to bite into the first piece, he paused guiltily, offering Aramis some. Aramis laughed and shook his head. "No, I've had my fill, my young friend. Besides, if you don't eat enough fresh food, you'll end up with scurvy. How will you charm the lasses with no teeth?"

Belén ducked his head at the good natured teasing, smiling shyly. Aramis was struck anew by how different and yet how similar he was to D'Artagnan. He had none of the young Musketeer's fire, but he had the enthusiasm in spades, and he was far less temperamental.

Aramis resolved then and there to keep the two apart. No need for D'Artagnan to rub off on the innocent boy.

He passed the time by teaching Belén Spanish, laughing as he tried to repeat the words around mouthfuls of orange, which Aramis kept pressing on him, keen to ensure the boy did not sicken while he was still recovering.

"I have something for you," Belén said suddenly, dropping the last of the peel into his pocket to hide the evidence.

"For me?" Aramis asked curiously.

Belén nodded sheepishly. "I just wanted to thank you, you know, for saving my life." He reached into his pocket and drew out a grubby rag, which he handled with unusual care. He unwound the grubby fabric and Aramis caught a glimpse of something silvery which reflected the light. At last the hidden object fell into Belén's hand.

It was a large shard of broken mirror, polished to a shine.

He handed it over shyly and Aramis took it, mindful of the sharp edges. He tilted it until he could see his reflection, wincing internally at the state of his beard after several days without trimming. He hadn't wanted to bother Porthos about using his mirror, but he had been despairing over the state of his carefully kept beard.

"It's not much," Belén said hurriedly. "But I don't have anything of any real value, and I thought perhaps you could use it. I heard in Paris men tend to their appearance?"

Aramis looked up sharply, searching for judgment, but found only sincerity in the boy's wide eyes. He smiled, carefully wrapping the rag back around the precious piece of glass. "Thank you. Truly. I will treasure it."

Belén grinned, looking relieved. "Knew it might come in handy someday," he said brightly, sitting back with only a slight grimace as the motion jarred his leg. He was already walking better.

"Besides, I haven't managed to grow a beard yet anyway," he added with a tone of aggrieved despondency.

"Ah, you aren't the only one," Aramis laughed, thinking of D'Artagnan's resolutely bare cheeks. "I'd better get back if I'm to have time to hide this before the noon bell."

Belén nodded and rose to see him back to the ladder, but Aramis waved a hand to keep him in his seat. "Don't trouble your leg. I may be hopeless, but I can still walk across a flat surface, even if it insists on moving treacherously."

He slipped back through the corridors to the crew quarters, sliding the mirror shard into one of his discarded boots, the only thing he was certain no one would bother touching. A lump under his pillow caught his eye and he shook his head, grinning as he drew out another orange.

Porthos was spoiling him.

No one should be down until lunch anyway, so he sat on the hammock and quickly peeled the ripe fruit. He had finished about a quarter of the orange when a figure suddenly appeared in the doorway. He froze guiltily.

The old man with the eye patch from the mess hall gazed solemnly at him. Then, very deliberately, he winked with his one eye and wandered over to his cot, ignoring Aramis completely.

The simple gesture of kindness brought a smile to Aramis's face. He rose and strode over to the old man, pressing half the orange into his gnarled hand. Blinking in gratitude, the man whisked the fruit into his pocket and went on rummaging through his things as Aramis slipped into the corridor, shoving the last of the fruit into his mouth.

He was heading to the mess hall, hoping the others would already be down for lunch and he could avoid the awkwardness of not knowing where to sit, when a hand grabbed his arm and dragged him into the shadows of a nearby doorway.

Aramis tensed for a moment before he realized the grip was firm but gentle. "Porthos," he whispered in the vague direction he imagined his lover's face to be. "What are you doing?"

"I never get to see you," was the hushed reply, and then he felt the wood of the doorway at his back as Porthos stepped forward, bare chest pressing Aramis into the beam before his mouth was caught in a hungry, rushed kiss.

Aramis gasped against Porthos's lips as he tried to press closer, fingers tracing the hard planes of his lover's chest muscles. He bit back a groan when Porthos broke away suddenly, footsteps echoing down the hallway.

In the half-light of the doorway Porthos cast him a frustrated look and stepped out unto the hallway, striding pointedly in the direction of the mess hall. Aramis waited until his breathing had slowed to follow.

Lunch was spent resolutely trying and failing not to think about Porthos's thigh pressed against his own and the dirty looks Athos kept shooting them both. Then Porthos was gone to help Sauvagne with something about the rigging and Aramis was off to the deck to be assigned his duties.

He was almost to the second mate, a straightforward sort of man who could at least be trusted to be fair, when Gavillier stopped him, hand catching Aramis's arm as he passed by in a bruising grip. "My quarters need swabbing," he said coldly. "See that the floor shines by the time I return." He vanished without another word.

Aramis sighed, rubbing his arm as he went to find a mop and bucket. At least he knew where to find them now and wouldn't have to clean the floor with just a scrubbing brush.

He groaned aloud when he entered Gavillier's cabin and saw the mess that awaited him. It looked as if the captain had dined with a horde of wild animals. Food was scattered across the floor and grog had sloshed liberally around the table. Porthos hadn't said anything about his dinner the first night being like this. Perhaps Gavillier's good manners were reserved for certain dining partners.

At least he managed to finish shortly before the dinner bell, hurrying to put the cleaning supplies away before anyone else could assign him more work. He was in such a rush that he splashed water on his shirt, soaking the front.

Lovely. Now he'd need to change before dinner.

He rushed to his quarters, only remembering when he pulled his shirt out that it was still covered in tar and utterly useless.

Except… it wasn't. It was clean and crisp. He frowned at it in confusion until he realized Porthos must have got someone to wash it for him. The thought warmed him and he changed quickly before anyone could come in.

Just as he was retying his belt, the one eyed man walked in. Catching sight of him, he hurried directly over, glancing anxiously over his shoulder as he came.

"Lad, there's something you should know," he whispered. Aramis frowned, leaning forward.

"What is it?"

"One of the men found another piece o' fruit in your hammock. He's whisperin' that you stole it."

Aramis drew back, outraged. "I am not a thief!"

The old man shook his head. "I know that, lad, I saw your man leave it for you." Aramis flushed at the phrasing but didn't interrupt, realizing the man was not judging him. "But you'd best be careful around the others. They smell new blood and they'll circle like sharks. And green as you are, you're an easy target."

"What have I done to make them resent me so much?" Aramis asked bitterly. The man eyed him strangely.

"Well, you killed a good dozen or so of 'em, not counting the ones you shot dead faster than I've ever seen. And let me tell you, lad, I've seen a lot." The dinner bell rang and they both looked around, startled. Then the old man shook his head, backing away. "Just be careful. You seem like a good sort, and I remember what you did for young Belén."

He hurried out, heading for the mess hall, and after a stunned moment Aramis followed. It seemed he'd made another friend, even if the others were more against him than ever.

To his disappointment, Porthos was not at dinner that evening. Probably eating in the captain's cabin, admiring the shining floor, Aramis thought bitterly. D'Artagnan chattered excitedly about how he'd learned about tacking, and Athos drank until he was almost too drunk to keep his seat. They had to carry him back to his cabin at the end of the meal. At last, exhausted, Aramis dropped into his hammock.

It felt as if no time had passed before someone was shaking his shoulder. He reckoned it to be just past midnight. He opened his eyes, ready to snap at whoever had woken him before the morning bell, when his eyes made out the shapes of Porthos and D'Artagnan in the gloom.

They were grinning like loons.

"What is it?" he whispered, but they shook their heads, exchanging mischievous glances as they motioned for him to follow. Groaning softly he rolled from the bed, following D'Artagnan down the dark corridor. Porthos strode beside him, slinging an arm about his shoulders. Aramis leaned into the warmth and wished he could go back to bed, preferably with his lover.

Eventually they reached Athos's room, and D'Artagnan didn't even knock before he pushed his way inside. Aramis followed, curiosity roused at last.

Athos was so drunk he'd passed the brooding stage and entered into a drunkenness rarely ever seen. He was smiling at them blearily, looking pleased with himself.

"Aramis," he said happily, beckoning him over with over exaggerated motions that bid fair to knock him sprawling. "I need your help."

"With what?" Aramis asked cautiously. Athos opened his palm and revealed a shiny silver earring.

"Want you to put this in," he slurred, pressing it to Aramis's palm. "D'Artagnan has a needle."

"You want me to pierce your ear?" Aramis asked in shock. He raised his eyes to glare at his companions. "Who talked him into this?"

"Aw, don't be a spoilsport," D'Artagnan begged hopefully, his own earring gleaming in the candlelight.

"Think how funny it'll be in the morning," Porthos chuckled. Warm brown eyes pleaded with him to agree, and he sighed deeply, holding a hand out for the needle.

"If he asks, one of you did it."

Porthos laughed. "Ah, love, even drunk Athos wouldn't let anyone but you near him with a needle. Why do you think we woke you?"

Aramis made short work of the piercing, threading the simple silver hoop through the hole. Athos smiled happily at him when he finished and promptly passed out. Shaking with silent laughter, D'Artagnan volunteered as sacrifice, offering to sleep in the cabin until morning so Athos wouldn't storm through the ship searching for an outlet for his inevitable rage.

In the hallway, Porthos pulled Aramis in for a quick, sweet kiss before vanishing towards his own cabin. Now bone tired, Aramis stumbled along towards the crew quarters. He didn't notice the hulking shape ahead of him until he almost walked into it.

"Up late?" Sauvagne asked coldly. "If you can't sleep, you can take my watch shift. I'm on until dawn." Smirking, Sauvagne shoved past him down the corridor.

Aramis cursed softly and clambered out onto the deck, taking the watch position by the stern. The wind was biting, but it was too late to go back for his jacket. Shivering, he tried to use the memory of Porthos's kiss to keep himself warm, but it wasn't much help.

It would be a long night.

Chapter Text

D'Artagnan woke to find Athos's face inches from his own, fury pouring off the older Musketeer like smoke from a blaze.

"Did you do this?" Athos's voice was dangerously quiet. One finger reached up to flick at the silver hoop hanging from his right ear.

"Well, technically Aramis did it," D'Artagnan mumbled, suddenly regretting his offer to be on Athos duty this morning.

Athos glowered. "Aramis is the only one of you with any degree of common sense. This was not his idea. So I ask again; did you do this?"

D'Artagnan quickly calculated the likelihood of ever getting another bottle of wine if he told the truth and quickly said innocently, "It was Porthos's idea!"

Narrowed eyes told him Athos did not believe him and had likely already realized that the idea had been jointly conceived. Finally he turned away, grumbling to himself

Unable to resist, D'Artagnan called to his back, "It look really good on you, though!"

Athos whipped his head around so fast that D'Artagnan jumped. The look on his face sad, quite clearly, I will poison your wine.

Ducking his head behind the blanket he'd stolen from Athos's bed the night before, D'Artagnan wondered whether or not his leader would make good on the threat. Probably not; where would he find the poison at sea?

Comforted, he emerged to find Athos looking blearily around the room, counting the number of empty bottles beside his bed.

"You were very drunk," D'Artagnan supplied helpfully.

Athos glared. "What are you even doing in here?"

"Ah, well," D'Artagnan said airily, doing his best Aramis impression. "Someone had to bear the brunt of your wrath."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Of course they did. And you nobly volunteered." He snorted, shaking his head. "Tell me why you are really here."

Flushing slightly, D'Artagnan cursed Athos's damn perceptiveness. Athos waited patiently for him to finish his inner tirade.

At last he admitted, in a small voice, "I don't like sleeping in the crew quarters."

Athos nodded, a long suffering look erasing his fury at last. "Why not?"

"They all snore."

Athos snorted again. "So do I."

"Yeah, but not like them," D'Artagnan said petulantly. "You haven't heard them, Athos. It's like sleeping with a herd of wild horses trampling around your head. I don't know how Aramis manages to fall asleep so easily."

Something flashed in Athos's eyes that D'Artagnan didn't understand, but he could sense that Athos hadn't denied him yet, so he pressed on. "So I thought, you know, maybe I could sleep in here. On the floor or something."

"What about Aramis?" Athos asked quietly, that unreadable look in his eyes again.

"What about him?" D'Artagnan replied, feeling as if the conversation was getting away from him. "I told you he has no trouble sleeping."

He could see Athos was wavering and pressed his point home. "Athos, the hammocks are so uncomfortable. They move! All. The. Time." He shot Athos his most pleading gaze.

Athos sighed, turning to a cupboard on the wall and pulling out a bottle of wine. He took a long swig, completely ignoring D'Artagnan's mounting frustration.

"Well?" he burst out at last, unable to wait a moment longer. "Can I stay?"

A pillow to the face was his only response. He was about to fling it back when he realized it was an answer and yelped with joy. "Thank you, Athos; I swear you won't regret it."

"I already do," was the weary answer. "Just, keep an eye on Aramis, will you?"

D'Artagnan frowned, bewildered. "Alright, of course I will. But why-"

Athos's glare interrupted him as he took another long swig from his bottle.

"Do you really need wine already?" D'Artagnan asked exasperatedly.

Athos lowered the bottle and glared menacingly. "If you want to sleep here, you can never question the amount I drink."

D'Artagnan laughed and raised his hands in surrender. "Fair enough."

"Now get up," Athos ordered. "We need to find Aramis before breakfast."

"Why?" D'Artagnan asked, clambering to his feet and scrambling to tie his bandanna back on properly.

"I need to speak with Aramis and Porthos," Athos said shortly, and the menace in his voice left D'Artagnan feeling glad that Athos still saw him as too young to get revenge upon.

Athos stalked out of the room and D'Artagnan bounded out on his heels, still too elated from his successful plea to feel sorry for his friends.

They found Aramis first, sitting in the mess hall even though the morning bell wouldn't ring for another half an hour. His cheeks were oddly red and there were dark bags under his eyes.

Athos glanced askance at D'Artagnan as they wove through the tables towards him. "Sleeping well, eh?" he muttered darkly.

Aramis glanced up as they approached, welcoming smile quickly fading as he apparently remembered just what had happened last night. But to D'Artagnan's surprise, Athos did not enter into his deadly rage mode and begin asking pointed questions with his eyebrows raised. He simply sat down and passed Aramis the wine.

"Hey!" D'Artagnan protested. Athos turned to him, looking scandalized.

"He's probably the only reason this godforsaken thing ended up going in straight," he said, glaring a challenge. D'Artagnan quailed under the dark look. Thankfully Porthos arrived at that moment to redirect Athos's wrath.

"You," Athos hissed, rising from his seat. "This is your fault."

Porthos's eyes darted to Aramis as if seeking support, but Aramis merely smirked and took a sip of the wine.

"Well, I think that's a bit unfair, mate," Porthos said uneasily, now looking to D'Artagnan for help.

"Is it?" Athos asked, his voice deadly. "Who encouraged the boy to play pirates? Who gave him the earring?"

"Aramis pierced it though!" Porthos protested. Apparently love only lasted so long in the face of Athos's fury. Aramis squawked and looked around at the betrayal.

Suddenly Athos rolled his eyes, the anger draining from his face. "I don't have enough wine for this." He turned and took his seat without another word, Porthos slinking past him to sit beside Aramis, who glared at him and yanked the bottle of wine from his reach only to have it plucked from his hands by Athos.

"What did I do?" Aramis protested.

Athos leveled a deadly glare at him. "You could have stopped them," he said, but his voice was not as icy as usual.

"We could make it even," D'Artagnan suggested. "You can pierce Aramis's ear."

Aramis stared at him in dumbfounded horror as Athos glanced over, looking alarmed by his devious thought process. Porthos looked utterly gleeful.

"Absolutely not," Aramis spluttered. Porthos's hand landed on his arm and he turned head on into the face of the most ridiculously pleading look D'Artagnan had ever seen. He was tempted to applaud.

"Ahh, come on, love," Porthos said cajolingly. "We don't have our shoulder guards; we ought to have something to mark us as a group, right?"

Athos snorted at that logic. "I believe we could have found something more suited to the task." Porthos ignored him.

Aramis's stern expression wavered in against the unleashed power of Porthos's begging look. "I bet it'll look brilliant on you," Porthos added, voice lower now, and Aramis sighed, relenting.

"Fine. But Athos isn't doing it."

Porthos smiled in delight. D'Artagnan realized what was coming a second too late and was treated to a lovely view of Porthos all but flinging himself on Aramis in his enthusiasm to kiss him before dashing from the room.

Aramis groaned, letting his head drop to his hands. "What have I agreed to?"

Porthos was back less than a minute later, bearing a needle. "What about the earring?" Aramis asked wearily, as if he were resigned to his fate.

"You'll see," was the only response. A moment later Porthos was straddling the bench beside Aramis, holding out a hand for the bottle of wine, which Athos relinquished with great reluctance.

Porthos sanitized the needle and held it carefully against Aramis's ear, a look of intense concentration on his face. "You ready?"

Aramis sighed. "Just get it-" The rest of his words were lost in a yelp as Porthos pushed the needle through cleanly, his motions measured and careful. Gold flashed in his hand and then a small gold earring was dangling from Aramis's ear.

"There, that'll do it," Porthos said proudly, sitting back.

"You weren't that careful with me," D'Artagnan muttered darkly.

"Rubbish," Porthos laughed, watching as Aramis turned his head experimentally and winced.

"Wait, that feels weird, I don't like it," he muttered, shaking his head like a dog. "I'm taking it out."

"Oh, c'mon," Porthos pleaded, his lips turning down into an actual pout as he caught Aramis's hand before he could reach the earring. "It looks fantastic."

Aramis sighed heavily but moved his hand away, and D'Artagnan noticed at last that Porthos had used the earring he'd worn back in Paris to pierce Aramis's ear.

"If this thing gets caught in the rigging today, it'll be entirely your fault," Aramis muttered mutinously, his words trailing off into a yawn. D'Artagnan sensed Athos shifting beside him and wondered if he was going to invite Aramis to sleep in his cabin as well, but just then the morning bell rang.

Just as well, D'Artagnan thought as he scurried up to grab his breakfast, the others close behind. He would have hated having to share.

Still, he couldn't forget Athos's quiet words earlier. Keep an eye on Aramis, will you? Remembering again the dark circles beneath Aramis's eyes, D'Artagnan promised to do just that.

He didn't know what Athos was worried about, but his brother would not face it alone.

Snatched moments.

That was all they had amongst a bawdy band of pirates who seemed to spring out of the woodwork without a moment's notice.

Of course, it wasn't as if they would react as the Church would - revulsion and the warm pyre - but Aramis was almost convinced that they would, God forbid, try to watch or something equally repulsive.

It was enough to have kept him chaste for the last few days, driving away plans of trying to sneak into Porthos's room. Besides, Sauvagne kept him working like a dog. Even if he had been able to sneak away, he was bone tired from last night's watch.

Porthos, however, was not.

No, Porthos was like the ship's guest of honor. He was lavished upon; food, clothes, that disgusting drink they called grog, and most frustratingly, attention.

Porthos had every pirate's ear. If he turned his head slightly, one of them was there, ready to obey his whim.

Nobody was there to obey Aramis's whim, and he was fairly certain his newly-healed ribs had taken a beating again when he fell from the rigging after lunch. It had been the first time he'd been sent up since boarding La Catin, and he hadn't improved in the interim.

D'Artagnan had scrambled over, in that infuriatingly quick way that he could manage, and helped him up. That gesture of kindness hadn't quieted the loud, raucous laughter, or the lewd comments they made about his soft hands.

Nor had it kept Sauvagne from finding him after and punishing him for his failure.

His hands weren't soft anymore. Even his arquebus callouses had split under the rope burn, and it hurt.

Porthos didn't mind though.

This morning, when Aramis had been minding his own business, resolutely not thinking about soft beds and tart wine, Porthos had grabbed him into the shadows and produced the latter.

There were a few hungry, berry-stained kisses, before the tell-tale trampling on the deck meant that someone was about to walk past and Porthos had to melt away into the darkness.

It was almost as painful as his blisters.

Which was why the moment that he had been summoned below decks to Athos's lair, he had been expecting only a grumpy quartermaster and possibly one of his secret bottles of wine.

Where Athos stored them, he had no idea.

But it wasn't Athos waiting for him in the flickering candlelight with a sly smile and a growled, "You ain't been avoidin' me, 'ave you, Aramis?"

Tiredness had stuck to him like a fog all day, lingering after his endless freezing watch, but it disappeared under Porthos's fiery gaze.

Something had happened to Porthos since they had joined the pirates, and it was like looking into the past. Gone was the proud Musketeer of France, and in its place was a man who ruled the seas with a salty smirk and a roughening of speech that managed to make Aramis shiver.

Porthos stepped forward, teeth flashing in a wide grin. "C'mere." Aramis hesitated, aware of the dull ache in his ribs and the possibility that they might be found, even locked in Athos's cabin.

Porthos's face softened into a smile, and for a moment, it was the Porthos that had braved impossible odds to save him. "Aramis," he said huskily, "I've missed you."

Aramis was helpless to that, and he exhaled sharply as he took the remaining step between them.

Porthos's hands grasped almost bruisingly on his hips before they gentled, and he muttered, "So much."

"I've been right here," he murmured, arching his neck as Porthos's breath burned against his skin. "You could have found me."

"I tried," Porthos rumbled against his throat, "You've been a busy boy."

Aramis hummed a dubious noise. "Too busy."

Porthos's fingers rested against his ribs and his voice was infinitely more soothing, "They okay?"

"Yes, mon cher," Aramis sighed, trying not to crumble against the onslaught that was Porthos' gruff charm.

"Good," was the only low warning that he received, and then he found himself between the wall and Porthos's warm chest.

Desire exploded like bright lights behind his eyes, and his breath hitched so much that he practically choked when Porthos bit his jugular and moved his lips up his neck until they tickled his tender ear.

It was heady and glorious and oh how he had missed it.

He flinched when his calluses caught on Porthos's shirt - the rare time his lover was actually wearing all of his clothes and seemed to be entirely unfair. His fingers twitched to take the cloth away, but he was suddenly hung up on his own appearance.

His shirt was stained and torn along one side, his sash was dirty and his breeches dusty. He cheeks were peeling with sunburn and his hair was wild and salt-flecked. Only his beard was acceptable, thanks to Belén's mirror.

He was a vain creature when he had the time to think about it, and now that he had the time, he was discomfited.

Porthos's hands encircled his, and then one of his fingers dipped into the wet heat of Porthos's mouth. Need clenched his stomach in such a sudden, painful wave that he forgot everything else.

Forgot everything except the feel of dark skin on tan, and the way Porthos's roughened voice made him hunger.

The moment Porthos's hips ground against his, he knew he was in dangerous territory - and that wasn't including the deadly pirate sucking marks along his collarbone. It had been too long, and their love too great, and their reunion was hard, and fast, and glorious.

The second time was slower, sweeter, with gasped breaths and Spanish prayers, and Porthos's amorous groans like a backdrop.

They had time, and they made good use of it - for who knew the next time Athos could be persuaded to prowl the deck and rope D'Artagnan in to distract the crew?

These snatched moments were theirs, and they were heat and love and perfection.

He kissed away the tang of grog on Porthos's grinning lips, and replaced it with lust and wine, and everything that made them up.

The swell of the sea was oh so easily tamed, now.

They had had enough practice.

Chapter Text

Aramis stumbled blearily into the mess hall the next morning, rubbing his arms absently to try and return some warmth to them. He'd been given the pre-dawn watch again, and the night had been freezing. Sauvagne had practically dragged him from his hammock and glared at him when he'd asked to go back for his jacket.

All of which meant he'd had only a few hours of sleep last night. If it hadn't been for the scant snatched hour or two in the afternoon when he'd fallen asleep with Porthos he was certain he would not have made it through the night.

As it was, he'd dozed off just before dawn and woken to an irate Sauvagne. He was certain he now had a lovely set of bruises decorating his stomach, but he supposed it was only fair. He might have put the ship in danger because he couldn't make it through his watch.

And now he had to make it through today, too.

The mess was all but empty, the dawn bell having rung only a few moments before, but Porthos was already lounging bare-chested in the corner. His face lit up in a grin when he saw Aramis, and the welcome sight was enough to rouse him a bit.

"Mornin'," Porthos said. Outwardly he seemed cheerful, but Aramis could read the undercurrent in his tone and knew Porthos was remembering the previous afternoon. Aramis had used those same memories to keep himself warm on watch.

He slid along the bench until the whole left side of his body was pressed against Porthos, for once not caring if anyone saw. He was just so tired.

"You alright?" Porthos asked, concern overtaking the lingering desire. "Is it your ribs?"

Aramis sighed, swiping a hand over his eyes as he fought the urge to just bury his face in Porthos's neck and stay there all day.

"I'm just tired," he said evasively. Porthos rubbed a hand soothingly across his shoulder blades but had to pull it away after a moment when more crew members began streaming in. He didn't question him further, though, which Aramis found slightly irritating. Not that he wanted to tell him what was going on, exactly, but it would've been nice to be asked.

Breakfast was a quiet affair. Athos was drunk and Aramis was too tired to make conversation. Porthos and D'Artagnan made a valiant effort at first but eventually gave up, eating in silence. Every few minutes Porthos would drop his hand to Aramis's thigh beneath the table, which was simultaneously comforting and infuriating, since it just reminded him of what he couldn't have.

He left ahead of the others, reaching the dawn line-up unusually early and falling in beside the old man with the eye patch. It was only when he was given a brusque nod of welcome that he realized he had never asked the man's name.

Before he could rectify his discourtesy, Sauvagne came striding out onto the deck. Aramis glanced over and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw D'Artagnan was already in line. Then he winced, noticing a man slightly older than himself dashing out seconds too late to avoid Sauvagne's attention.

"What's this then?" he asked, voice dangerously low as he stalked over to the unfortunate privateer. "Late for duty, Célain?"

"I'm sorry, sir, it won't happen again," babbled Célain, eyes darting wildly around the ship. Aramis could see that Porthos and Athos had emerged from below and were watching stony-faced.

"Oh, we can be sure of that," Sauvagne said, face twisting in a cruel smile. He motioned to two of the crew members nearby, who leapt forward and grabbed Célain. "Let's gather by the mast, boys."

Aramis was swept into the push of bodies as the crew moved as one to the mast, where the two men were dragging the panicky Célain with ruthless brutality. Aramis's stomach plunged as he saw the rusty looking irons attached to the mast just above head height. Surely they wouldn't…?

But a moment later his suspicions were confirmed when Célain's shirt was ripped from his back, hands clasped cruelly into the flaking iron shackles. Sauvagne stepped forward, a long black leather whip coiled in his hands.

Aramis counted nine lengths of leather forming the tip and fought the urge to look away. He could not show weakness in the face of what seemed to be an ordinary punishment on board the ship.

Nevertheless, when Sauvagne raised his hand, he looked away, flinching bodily at the first crack of the whip. His stomach rolled at the hauntingly familiar sound. A moment later an arm brushed along his, and he turned his head to see Porthos planted firmly beside him, face grim with understanding.

Taking comfort in his solid presence, Aramis fixed his gaze on the ground and tried to control his thoughts as the whip cracked four more times, accompanied by pained cries. Then, mercifully, it was over, and Célain was being freed, staggering shakily away from the mast.

Sauvagne was re-coiling the whip in his massive hands. "Let that be a lesson to you," he called coldly, eyes roaming the sea of faces. "We do not tolerate laziness." His gaze seemed to linger a moment too long on Aramis before he turned away. "Get to work."

Aramis felt Porthos hovering over him protectively long before the crowd around them had cleared enough for Porthos to whisper, "You alright?"

Aramis nodded, not trusting himself to speak just yet. He'd caught a glimpse of Célain's back that had set his head pounding.

Suddenly Sauvagne was in front of them, tipping his head deferentially to Porthos. "I think the captain was looking for you."

Porthos glanced at between Sauvagne and Aramis. "Actually," he said, apparently coming to a decision, "I thought I'd work the deck today. See how my men are settlin' in."

Aramis swore Sauvagne's lip curled in disdain for a moment before he said smoothly, "Of course. Perhaps the pair of you would like to join the group patching the mainsail? We've been sailing with the spare ever since those splinters poked holes in the first."

Aramis blinked at the easy assignment as Porthos nodded and led the way across the deck. The perforated sail was already being spread out along the open space near the bow, and three or four men were scrambling over it with extra canvas and needles.

"Should be right up your alley," Porthos murmured in Aramis's ear as they approached, and Aramis's heart lightened a bit. Finally, something he could do.

The second mate, whom D'Artagnan had smugly informed him was called the bosun, directed them to grab spare sailcloth and patch any tears they found. Porthos grinned at Aramis, and he couldn't resist answering it. It was the first time since they'd boarded the ship that he and Porthos had worked together.

The first half bell or so was spent mostly shoving Porthos off the spare canvas, which he would trod on intentionally so that Aramis would nearly trip. The one time he actually did fall, Porthos had merely grinned and caught him neatly, warm hands lingering over long on his waist.

Eventually Porthos stopped playing and actually got to work. By the end of the hour sweat was gleaming on his dark skin and Aramis was beginning to stab himself with the needle because he was losing focus on the work in favor of the view.

Porthos lifted a hand to swipe at the sweat railing down the back of his neck, and Aramis saw him hesitate suddenly, his hand pausing on the side of his neck. Aramis sat back, watching him closely.

Sensing his attention, Porthos shot him a wry grin and removed his fingers, revealing the edge of the fist-sized burn on the side of his neck. "Guess all this hard work's washed away my handiwork," Porthos said lightly, but his words were strained.

Before Aramis could think of what to say, the bosun shouted over for Porthos to come grab some more canvas and Porthos retreated hastily.

Aramis felt his discomfort as if it were a tangible thing. Porthos usually tried to keep that particular scar hidden in consideration of its origin. He wouldn't care about the privateers seeing it, but Aramis knew Athos and D'Artagnan would have questions.

Well, mostly D'Artagnan. Athos knew to mind his own business.

As if thinking about him had somehow summoned him, D'Artagnan appeared at his elbow, watching Porthos curiously.

"What's that on his neck-?" D'Artagnan began, but Aramis shot him a quelling glare.

"Don't bring it up, alright? If he wants you to know, he'll tell you."

"I wasn't going to ask him!" D'Artagnan protested indignantly.

Aramis snorted. "Yes you were. Now scram. Back to work, D'Art."

The boy smiled at the use of the name he'd given the privateers and vanished into the rigging a few moments before Porthos returned.

Aramis tried rapidly to think of something to say to let Porthos know that it didn't matter to any of them that he bore scars from his old life, but Porthos's face had gone unexpectedly hard. They worked in silence for a while before Aramis at last worked up the courage to speak.

"Are you… angry?" he asked quietly. Porthos grimaced, letting the canvas in his hands slip to the ground, but said nothing.

Aramis frowned, thinking hard, and then it came to him. He almost laughed. "Porthos, I warned him not to go asking insensitive questions like a fool. It doesn't bother me in the slightest."

Porthos's startled, guilty look told Aramis he'd been dead on. "I didn't think-," he began awkwardly, but Aramis waved off the jumbled apology.

"We all have our scars, Porthos," he reminded him quietly. "The others will not think less of you for yours. But perhaps you should tell them what happened before they figure it out on their own."

Porthos shot him a sheepish grin, gathering up the fallen canvas. "When did you get so wise?" he grumbled teasingly.

Aramis laughed as he knelt down beside a particularly wide tear. "One of us had to be the wise one now that Athos is so deep in his bottles."

Porthos chuckled and returned to his work, but Aramis noticed that his hand would creep back to the side of his neck every few minutes. He glanced down at his sleeves, realizing what he had to do. Besides, he was too hot anyway.

Casually, as if he thought nothing of it, he rolled his sleeves up past the elbow, one after the other. Porthos stilled but said nothing, watching silently. Aramis did not glance up as he went back to work, trying to keep his eyes from lingering too much on the thick scars encircling his wrists.

After a moment, Porthos knelt down beside him, muscled shoulder brushing Aramis's as he reached out to hold the sailcloth in place. He did not speak, but the grateful squeeze he gave Aramis's forearm told him that he had done the right thing.

It was about time they stopped letting their scars define them.

When they returned from lunch, the bosun told their group that the sail was as patched up as it was going to get and sent them into the rigging to check the lines. Porthos watched Aramis carefully as they climbed, making sure he was ready to grab him if Aramis decided to demonstrate his lack of suitability for sea life once again.

The scars around his wrists were vivid in the sunlight, and Porthos felt a rush of warmth at the thought that Aramis had finally stopped hiding them in public. For him. Perhaps, in time, the others would follow.

Thankfully they made it to the tops without any issue, and after checking that the bosun was not watching too closely Porthos grinned at Aramis and gestured towards the where the crossbar met the mast. "Relax, I can take care of this."

Aramis smiled gratefully and leaned back against the thick round of the mast, fingers clutching at the ropes for balance. Porthos grinned at his lover's white knuckled grip and swallowed the urge to tease him for being a landlubber. Aramis already hated that he was useless in the most important part of the ship.

It was peaceful in the tops, straightening lines that had tangled in the strong breeze and gazing out over the endless expanse of the ocean.

"Does it ever end?" Aramis murmured, sounding awed.

"When you reach the colonies, yeah," Porthos chuckled, changing his tone from sarcastic to affectionate when he noticed the faraway look in Aramis's eyes.

"What are they like?" he asked, looking out ahead of the ship as if he could see them already.

Porthos paused in his work, glancing back at Aramis. He seemed so young without his hat, barefoot and sunburned. He looked… well, he looked like a pirate, especially with the green bandanna and Porthos's earring, which glinted in the sun.

"They're nothin' like home," he said at last, trying to call up hazy images of long ago trips. "It's hot there, and the water is bluer than you've ever seen. All the beaches have white sand and sparkle in the sun." He stopped, smiling at the fascinated look in Aramis's eyes.

"It sounds beautiful," Aramis breathed rapturously.

"It is. You're gonna love it," Porthos told him, already imagining how Aramis would look beneath him on that white sand.

Aramis's lips curved up in a graceful smile. "How much longer before we get there?"

Porthos thought for a moment. "Another two or three weeks at least."

Aramis's pleased expression fell immediately, shutters going up behind his warm eyes. "What's wrong?" Porthos asked, pleasant thoughts deserting him in the face of Aramis's blatant unhappiness.

Aramis hesitated, something unreadable at war in his eyes. "It just seems like such a long time," he said softly, and Porthos was forcibly reminded of how tired he'd seemed this morning.

"Rubbish, it's not so bad," he murmured, stepping forward until he could brace his hands against the mast on either side of Aramis's head. "We'll be there before you know it."

Aramis sighed and looked away. Cursing internally, Porthos scanned the rigging nearby, making sure there was no one to see. Then he leaned forward, crowding Aramis up against the mast.

"Just think about being back on land," he said, pitching his voice low. Aramis's eyes widened. "We'll go find an inn and finally have some privacy."

He could see desire warring with uncertainty and added, in a fit of inspiration, "An inn with a bathtub."

Aramis's face broke into a wide smile, and Porthos laughed, leaning in closer. Aramis breached the last of the distance, pressing against Porthos's chest as his lips met his own in a fast, desperate kiss.

It was over too fast, both of them overly aware of how easily they could be spotted. "Why aren't we on land already?" Aramis grumbled as Porthos stepped back.

"Soon, love," he chuckled, and the words were a promise.

A commotion from below drew his attention and he leaned around Aramis to peer down the length of the mast. He groaned, dropping his head forward against Aramis's shoulder. "Shit."

"What is it?" Aramis asked curiously, trying to twist free from his pinned position to see what was going on.

"It's Athos."

"What's he doing now?"

"D'Artagnan just showed up too," Porthos added dismally. "We'd better get down there."

He leaned back reluctantly and began to scramble down the mast, careful to check every few seconds to make sure Aramis hadn't lost his footing in his haste, which would inevitably have sent them both to their deaths.

They reached the base of the mast fairly quickly and Porthos shoved his way through the crowd gathering around Athos and another man, who was staring at the older Musketeer with an expression of great disdain.

"Look at 'im. He's so drunk 'e can barely walk. Who voted on 'im as quartermaster, eh? I don't trust 'im with my provisions. And 'e don't even share 'is wine."

D'Artagnan was standing a step behind Athos, glowering at the challenger with an outraged expression.

"What's all this, then?" Porthos asked loudly, breaking through the circle at last. The man shot him an anxious look but held his ground.

"I don't trust 'im," he said, gesturing at Athos. "What good 'is he to us? A lazy drunk who don't help with the ship and ain't no good in a fight."

"I am excellent in a fight," Athos said very clearly. Rage bubbled in Porthos's stomach when the men laughed.

"You mighta been good when we caught your little boat, but you weren't drunk then," a man in the crowd called.

"I assure you I can take any man here, drunk or sober."

Across the circle, Porthos saw that Gavillier and Sauvagne had arrived, watching silently from the outskirts.

"I don' believe you," the challenger sneered.

Athos's mouth twitched grimly. "Then test me. Let's see the best you have to offer."

The man laughed derisively. "The best? No, I don' want any o' my friends taken up for murdering your sorry ass. You c'n fight a young'un." His eyes fell on D'Artagnan. "How about 'im? He's not likely to kill you, 'is he?"

"I'll put ten sous on the pup!" Another man called, initiating a rapid series of bets, almost all of which favored D'Artagnan.

Out of the corner of his eye, Porthos saw Aramis hide a grin. He wanted to laugh himself: these men were about to get much more than they had bargained for.

"With your permission, captain?" Athos drawled, glancing over at Gavillier, who nodded. Athos drew his rapier while a spare was passed to D'Artagnan, who was looking oddly nervous.

Porthos crossed to him in the guise of checking his weapon while Aramis did the same for Athos. "What's wrong, lad?"

"I haven't fought outside a battle in ages," he whispered. "What if I hurt him?"

Porthos chuckled. "You won't. Between you and me, Athos is s good drunk as he is sober." D'Artagnan's eyes widened and Porthos clapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck."

He stepped back into the circle beside Aramis, watching as Athos and D'Artagnan fell into the ready stance. "Begin," he called.

D'Artagnan moved first, as he always did, launching in with a quick swipe aimed at Athos's head. Athos parried the blade with enviable ease, smiling lazily at the boy, who shook his head and danced in for another attack, cutting this time for Athos's legs.

Athos twisted away and went on the offensive himself, rapier whistling around to clash with D'Artagnan's in a dazzling arc. The circle widened as the pair whirled around each other. They were putting on a good show, and the crowd was beginning to look rather awed, but Porthos could see the restrain they were exercising.

They didn't want the privateers to know just how capable they were.

Suddenly D'Artagnan dove into a gap in Athos's guard, and Porthos raised an eyebrow as Athos's sword was twisted from his hand. At his side, Aramis shifted, frowning. "Athos let him do that," he muttered, and Porthos nodded his agreement. Athos had left that hole on purpose, and D'Artagnan had known it was coming.

What were they playing at?
"The boy wins!" Gavillier called over the cheers of the crowd, which surged forward to offer congratulations to both parties, regarding each Musketeer with healthy amounts of respect.

The original challenger stepped forward, looking shamefaced. "'M sorry," he mumbled to Athos. "You're better than I thought." Athos inclined his head graciously, accepting the apology as he stepped over to Porthos and Aramis.

"You let him win," Aramis whispered when he was close enough, glancing over to where the men were still crowding around D'Artagnan.

Athos gave him a pointed look. "They all had money on him. They'd hardly like me if they lost their hard earned sous, would they?"

"You lost to make them like you more?" Porthos asked, laughing.

"And to make them like him more," Athos shrugged, nodding at D'Artagnan, who was beaming under the attention. "I don't need to interact with them. Better they like him than me."

Aramis nodded his understanding. "That was wise."

"Well, that was great fun!" Gavillier boomed, striding into the mass of men and shoving purposefully until they backed into a circle once more. "It's been a long time since we saw such an invigorating display. But I wonder—would you like to see more?"

The men cheered. Athos met Porthos's eye, one eyebrow raised inquiringly, but Porthos shrugged. He didn't know what Gavillier was doing.

"We've seen great skill already, but wouldn't you like to see the masters?" Gavillier cried, smiling broadly. Porthos stiffened as Gavillier glanced over at him, suddenly realizing where this was going.

"Shall we duel, old friend?"

Chapter Text

Gavillier's smile did not reach his eyes, and Aramis wanted to grab Porthos's arm as he stepped forward and demand he refuse the duel, but he knew he couldn't. To do so would make Porthos appear weak before the watchful eyes of the crew, and he couldn't risk the danger it would put his lover in.

Porthos smiled easily, but Aramis could see the tension in the line of his shoulders, the coiled readiness in his step. He was taking this seriously, even if Gavillier treated it lightly.

"You're on," he called, and Gavillier's predatory grin widened.

A murmur of excitement ran through the crew as they stepped back, forming a broad circle around the pair as they neared one another. Gavillier nodded easily to Sauvagne as he stepped forward, drawing the handsome cutlass that hung from his waist. Gold trim gleamed on the hilt and the sharp edge of the curved blade glinted. He swung it dramatically through the air with a high whistling sound.

Porthos drew his own sword, plain in comparison to the ostentation of Gavillier's but arguably the deadlier of the pair. The blade was thicker than the average rapier, and the heavy hilt was a weapon in its own right. He had no need of decoration: his was a soldier's blade.

He reached Gavillier and raised his blade to indicate his readiness. The entire crew had gone silent: there were no jeers this time, no bets on the outcome. The air was thick with tension.

Gavillier lifted his blade and laid the curved edge against Porthos's, a feral smile visible beneath his beard. Porthos did not return it.

There was no call to begin, no bowing between combatants. One moment Gavillier's blade was poised crossing Porthos's, and the next he was lunging in viciously. His sword crashed down on Porthos's, who parried it neatly, stepping back and around to bring his own sword whistling down in a cleaving motion.

Gavillier blocked, twisting his wrist to break free and circling like a predator, eyes wary. Porthos tracked him, broad blade held at the ready.

This time he moved first, dancing in with a speed that would never cease to amaze Aramis, launching to one side and bringing his blade up with blinding speed, aiming for Gavillier's ribcage, but the privateer was just as fast and dodged aside, knocking Porthos's blade aside with the hilt of his cutlass.

Aramis frowned, watching the exchange. Something was different. As Porthos lunged in again, he realized what it was.

Porthos wasn't fighting like a Musketeer. There were none of the moves he'd learned at the garrison, elegant sweeps and perfectly timed thrusts. This was visceral, instinctive. It spoke of heaving decks and whistling shot sending splinters past your face during battle, where every step had to be perfect or you'd slip in the blood of your enemies.

Porthos was fighting like a pirate.

It was… well, it was unexpectedly attractive, really.

Aramis was snapped out of his moment of appreciation but a loud cheer from the crew. Porthos had leaned neatly out of the path of a whistling sweep, hacking ferociously at Gavillier's exposed arm, but the captain twisted out of reach, aiming a cut at Porthos's stomach that might have killed him if he hadn't parried it.

Aramis had never expected the match to seem quite this deadly, and a sliver of fear crept into his heart. Gavillier was supposed to be Porthos's friend.

Porthos darted out and away, using a nearby barrel to launch himself forward at an angle, knocking Gavillier's blade aside with ease, but Gavillier dropped to the deck with enviable grace, rolling neatly and coming back to his feet with his blade still angled towards Porthos.

Porthos grinned, a feral look in his eyes, and threw himself forward, a dizzying rain of blows falling from his rapier as he came on like a hurricane, but Gavillier parried each, refusing to be forced backwards.

Then Porthos landed a blow that shook Gavillier's arms and nearly knocked the blade from his hand. For a split second, Aramis saw an opening, a simple way for Porthos to snake his blade around to kiss Gavillier's throat and end the bout.

He didn't take it.

Instead, he swiped his blade to the side in a broad cut, giving Gavillier the time he needed to recover and go on the attack.

Aramis gaped at him, sensing Athos shifting restlessly at his side. Had Porthos not seen the opportunity?

Gavillier slammed a shoulder into Porthos as he ducked beneath the edge of his blade, sending Porthos staggering backwards. His foot caught a coil of rope left carelessly across the deck and he stumbled. Gavillier leapt forward and pressed the tip of the blade to Porthos's stomach, smiling.

"I win."

Porthos lowered his blade, chuckling as Gavillier clapped him on the shoulder and the crew erupted in cheers for their captain, but Aramis felt sick.

Porthos had lost.

He had lost.

Any thought that he ought to tell his lover about Gavillier's unwelcome attention evaporated. How could he risk it, when he knew Porthos would challenge the man on the spot, a man to whom he had lost once before?

Gavillier might well kill him.

Aramis would never take that chance. He would let Gavillier do whatever he pleased with him before he would risk Porthos's life needlessly. And if Porthos died, Athos and D'Artagnan would certainly follow.

He could not be responsible for that.

Men were streaming forward, congregating around the fighters, compliments flying thick in the air. Aramis stepped back from the press of bodies as Athos and D'Artagnan shoved their way towards Porthos.

He needed a moment to collect his thoughts before he spoke to his lover.

An uneasy feeling rose along the back of his neck and he half turned to see Sauvagne lurking behind him. He understood what was about to happen a heartbeat before it did and managed to keep his face blank when a heavy blow crashed into the small of his back, just to the left of his spine.

"I saw you," Sauvagne hissed dangerously, leaning down to all but whisper the words into his ear. 'Lazin' about in the tops. That just won't do. You'll stand full watch tonight."

Aramis bit back his gasps as he tried to regain the air that had been forcibly expelled from his lungs and saw Porthos slowly approaching through the crowd. He fought through the ache to stand straight as Sauvagne pushed past him, heading towards Gavillier.

Porthos finally made it through the gathered privateers and reached Aramis's side, frowning. "What did he want?" he asked, jerking his head at Sauvagne's retreating figure.

Ignoring the pain in his back, Aramis replied quickly, "Oh, he was… telling me off for lazing about in the rigging earlier."

"He shouldn't be doin' that," Porthos said, his voice a low rumble.

For a second, Aramis wanted nothing more than to tell him the truth about all of it. Gavillier's unwanted advances, and Sauvagne's brutality…

But then the image of Gavillier's cutlass digging into Porthos's stomach flashed across his mind, sending jolts of acid through his veins. The thought of that wicked blade plunging into Porthos's stomach, leaving him to bleed out, was sickening.

His own voice came back to him, echoing from so long ago now. Death is inevitable, but you'll bleed for hours first. He could never let that happen to Porthos.

Thinking quickly, he said with forced neutrality, "Oh, no, I don't think he really meant it like that. He was just warning me to be more careful."

Porthos's face cleared immediately, accepting the lie. "Oh, well that's alright then." He leaned in, a conspiratorial grin on his face. "You ought to show them what you can do."

Aramis frowned at him, puzzled. He didn't seem remotely disturbed by his loss. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said slowly. "I've yet to fight on a moving ship."

But Porthos shook his head. "Nah, not a duel," he explained with a wink. "You ought to shoot something." He pressed his pistol into Aramis's hands, and the familiar weight was a comforting presence.

"Where am I going to find something to shoot all the way out here?" Aramis asked, rolling his eyes.

Porthos rolled his eyes. "Just pick a target, any target. Just something to show 'em all that you're a force to be reckoned with."

The proud smile that flashed across Porthos's face was enough to convince Aramis. "Alright, then," he chuckled, casting his gaze over the endless waves in search of a target.

For a long minute he found absolutely nothing he could shoot. He could sense Porthos beside him searching in the opposite direction. Then at last he spotted a flicker of white against the clouds that resolved itself into a large bird.

Grinning, he lifted the gun, sighting along it. Porthos turned to look at his target, and just as Aramis squeezed the trigger, cried, "No!"

He was too late. The bird tumbled from the sky to break on the waves. It was one of the greatest shots he'd ever made.

He turned to look at Porthos, smiling, but Porthos was staring back at him in shock.

"Aramis, what have you done?"

"You shot what?" Belén's voice echoed wildly around the hold, and Aramis winced at the shock in his tone.

"An albatross," he sighed heavily, remembering the hatred in the eyes of the crew when they'd caught sight of the limp white body bobbing in the waves. Even from a distance, Aramis could see one massive white wing trailing brokenly in the blue water before the corpse had disappeared.

Even Porthos had looked at him with genuine fear before Sauvagne had come up bellowing for the crew to get back to work and sent Aramis down to the hold. He hadn't even given him a job, obviously desperate to get him out of sight before the crew began to riot.

Not that Aramis even understood why, of course. Amongst the angry yells he'd heard something about ill luck and curses and the name of the seabird, but that was all.

Belén was watching him in horror, but at least he didn't look angry. "That's not good."

"So I gathered," Aramis snapped, regretting it at once when Belén looked hurt. It was hardly the boy's fault, though to be fair, he himself shouldn't be blamed for whatever it was he'd done when no one bothered to tell him anything about this bloody ship and its ways. "I'm sorry, my friend. I do not mean to be harsh, but I've yet to be told what I did that was so terrible."

"Well… you shot an albatross," Belén said unhelpfully, reminding him forcibly of D'Artagnan.

Aramis prayed for patience. "Yes, I know that."

"Well, an albatross is supposed to be good luck. If you see one, it means the voyage will go well, but if you kill one… I've heard that some sailors ignore the legend and eat them, but no one knows what becomes of them. They're probably eaten by sharks or something dreadful like that."

"But why is it such terrible luck to kill one?"

Belén thought for a moment. "Old Dupard told me that albatrosses are the souls of lost sailors, those who died at sea, come back to feel like part of a crew once more. He also said that to kill one will bring a curse down upon the whole ship because it lets the spirit loose."

"What kind of a curse?" Aramis asked reluctantly. He didn't hold with all this superstitious nonsense, but if the privateers believed it, he might be in serious trouble.

Belén shrugged, looking nervous. "All sorts of things. Storms and leaks and sickness and days with no wind… It's serious business," he finished apologetically.

"So the bird I killed will cause a disaster. Lovely," Aramis groaned, dropping his head back against the wall. "Nice to know I've graduated from useless to bringer of doom."

Belén didn't crack a smile at his weak attempt at a joke. "This could be really bad," he said uneasily. "I mean, most of the crew already doesn't like you…"

Aramis shrugged, already resigning himself. "How much worse can it get?"

He headed back up to the deck a few minutes later, figuring he'd be better off if he was seen being productive, and found out the answer to his own question.

Things could get a lot worse.

Porthos was nowhere to be found, and Sauvagne set him to swabbing the deck for the afternoon, shoving one of the handheld brushes into his hands rather than a broom. Aramis could sense the hostile glares being thrown his way, but it wasn't until he'd finished a great section of the upper deck that things came to a head.

Men began tramping heavily over the pristine surface, trailing grimy footprints over the clean planks. Aramis washed the sections again without a word, hoping that by accepting the retaliation he would rob it of its pleasure.

This was not to be the case.

When they realized he wasn't going to react to their antagonism, they grew more creative. One of the men fishing over the side dumped a full net onto the deck, sending water and fish carcasses sliding everywhere just as Sauvagne was walking by. A barked order to be more careful forced Aramis's tormentors to get more creative.

They began to pass by him, knocking heavily into his shoulders until he was being buffeted to one side or another every few minutes. The third mate, an ugly, thickset man, was leaning against a railing nearby, watching him for any response, so Aramis had no choice but to grit his teeth and bear it.

One time someone laid a gentle hand on his arm, helping him up when he took more than a moment to right himself, and Aramis looked up, hoping it might be Porthos, but it wasn't.

It was D'Artagnan, and the look of anger on his face sent a wave of affection through Aramis, hardening him to the mistreatment.

"Just ignore them," he murmured, sensing how close the boy was to retaliating on his behalf.

"They have no right to treat you like that," D'Artagnan hissed furiously.

Aramis shrugged, ignoring the ache forming in his shoulders. "They'll get over it. Best to let them get it out of their systems now than allow it to build into graver resentment."

The boy's frown only deepened and Aramis realized he had no intention of leaving. Sighing, he added truthfully, "You'll only make it worse and make yourself a target too. I'll be fine. We've all taken worse than this." He layered disdain thickly over the final words, and D'Artagnan cracked a reluctant half smile.

"Please, just go."

D'Artagnan still looked murderous, but at last he nodded reluctantly and scrambled back into the rigging, sending a glare so full of rage at a man who had been approaching that he turned tail and vanished back into the safety of the hold.

D'Artagnan's intervention bought him a temporary respite, but before long he was suffering the same treatment once again. He could see the boy watching from the rigging, grateful for the supportive presence.

At last one of the men landed an unusually hard blow, his hand actually catching Aramis upside the head as he passed, and Aramis knocked over his bucket of soapy water as he fell, sloshing suds across the clean deck.

The third mate straightened at once, a cruel gleam in his eye. "Clumsy,' he sneered, crossing through the mess and casually kicking it further about. "You ought ter have finished ages ago."

Aramis rose to his feet, sensing what was about to come before it did. The blow landed heavily against his stomach, almost hard enough to make him retch. Reflexively, tears blurred his vision as he coughed.

A second later there was a thump on the deck beside him, and he straightened with difficulty to see D'Artagnan had bravely come to his defense.

Brave, but idiotic.

"Leave him alone," he said hotly, anger flashing in his eyes. "Can't you see it's your men who're messing everything up?"

"What's it to you?" the mate asked, squaring his shoulders threateningly. D'Artagnan did not back down.

"He's my friend," he said firmly. There were several snickers from the rigging at D'Artagnan's declaration, but Aramis only shook his head at the boy's temper even as he felt gratitude warm him.

The mate's face twisted into something bitter as he realized D'Artagnan fully intended to challenge his authority.

"Puppies only yelp when they're smacked," he growled, his hand cracking out to catch D'Artagnan on the jaw. The lad reeled back, unprepared for the attack. All around them, Aramis could sense eyes watching, waiting to see what would happen.

Guilt burned through Aramis like fire and he leapt forward, pushing the man back when he attempted to move in for a second blow.

Obviously enraged past the point of reason, the mate shouted, "Strike a superior officer, will you, scum?"

Aramis did not even try to stop what happened next, knowing he'd only make it worse. He was just glad to keep the man's attention off D'Artagnan. The mate's hand smashed against Aramis's cheek, setting his head ringing and blurring his vision as he stumbled back.

"Lads!" the man called, sick pleasure in his voice. "This man struck me. We all know what that means, right?"

Suddenly hands were grabbing his arms with bruising force, dragging him across the deck. He heard D'Artagnan's furious cry behind him and guessed others were restraining the boy.

At last his vision cleared enough for him to see what was happening, and bile rose in his throat.

They were taking him to the mast.

He heard D'Artagnan shouting behind him, nearly incoherent with rage, but he couldn't focus on the words.

Not again, not again, his mind was chanting desperately as he frantically struggled to stem the flow of memories he'd tried to bury.

And then he saw the whip.

Chapter Text

"I'm telling you, I think you should publically announce to the crew that the ship isn't going to be cursed just because Aramis shot an albatross," Porthos growled, trying to hide his frustration. Gavillier was being oddly uncooperative.

"And I'm telling you it would do no good! I cannot allay the superstitions formed over a lifetime of sailing!" Gavillier shot back, his amiable demeanor cracking under the pressure. "You should not have let him shoot the bird in the first place! He is your responsibility!"

Porthos had no response to that, because Gavillier was right. It had been his idea for Aramis to show off, and it would be his fault if anything happened to his lover because of it. But that didn't give Gavillier the right to just leave his crew to form a mob based on a load of mumbo-jumbo.

Raised voices drifted in through Gavillier's open window and Porthos paused, trying to hear what was being said, but the breeze snatched the words away.

He opened his mouth to insist again that his old friend do something to protect Aramis's from the crew's fears when he heard voices again, louder and more insistent. There was anger carried in on the wind.

Porthos rose immediately, ignoring Gavillier's hasty reassurances that he was "sure it was nothing," and crossed to the door. Uneasiness settled over him like a blanket as he remembered the hostile stares of the crew earlier.

He couldn't take the chance that something terrible might happen to Aramis.

Throwing the door to the cabin open, he strode out onto the deck. A crowd was gathered near the foremast, loud jeers rising from it with increasing frequency.

Gavillier hurried out behind him, frowning at the sight. "Now what?" he muttered.

Porthos didn't bother to wait for him, jogging down to the edge of the crowd and beginning to push his way through. No one gave him any notice, and he was soon reduced to simply knocking men aside when they got in his way. It seemed the whole ship had congregated.

Athos appeared at his elbow halfway through the throng, his face grim. "What's happening?" Porthos asked him, almost shouting over the roar of the crowd.

A bleak stare met his enquiring gaze. "Just hurry, dammit."

Fear spiked in his stomach and he practically threw the last few men out of his way, breaking at last into the cleared area around the mast.

The first thing he saw was D'Artagnan struggling to break free from a pair of men almost twice his size, whose arms were already covered in scratches from the irate young Musketeer.

His heart plummeted in his chest as he followed the lad's gaze, praying he wouldn't see what his brain knew he would.

Aramis was being dragged towards the mast by three men. His face was deathly pale and he was fighting like a creature possessed against the men dragging him forward. Even as Porthos watched, frozen, the third mate stepped forward and cracked Aramis hard against the jaw with the back of his hand.

Aramis went limp for a moment, stunned by the force of the blow, and the men used the reprieve to drag him closer to the mast. The afternoon sun glinted dully against iron, and the sight jolted Porthos from his paralysis.

"Stop!" The word was more a bellow of rage than any language known to man, but it did the job. The entire crowd fell silent at once, a hundred pairs of eyes turning to look at him. The third mate actually jumped.

Between his captors, Aramis had regained his feet. His eyes flicked to Porthos for half a moment, just long enough for him to see the way they were glazed over, before darting back to the third mate.

No, Porthos corrected himself, feeling sick. Not the third mate. To the whip he held in his hands with a perverse glee.

It took every ounce of self-control he could muster not to throw himself upon the men before him at once and make them pay for stirring up memories better left forgotten, but he had enough sense left to know that to start a fight now would end with he and his brothers all dead on the deck.

No, he would have to cow these men into submission some other way.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous as he stalked forward. "Release him. Now."

The men holding Aramis hesitated a heartbeat too long, so Porthos whirled on them furiously. "Now!" he roared, and all three staggered back a few steps in fright.

Aramis straightened slowly, hunched ever so slightly in on himself. His eyes never left the whip in the third mate's hand. Porthos wanted nothing more than to comfort him, but he couldn't. Not yet.

Somewhere to his left, Porthos saw that D'Artagnan's captors had wisely decided to release him as well. A moment later he and Athos appeared on either side of Aramis, looking murderous.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword as he prowled towards the third mate, who bore the look of a man being stalked by a hungry tiger.

"Yes, do tell us what this is all about." Gavillier's voice cut through the murmurs beginning to spread among the crowd, silencing them once more. He strode out to stand beside Porthos, casting a disdainful eye at his threatening stance.

"Take your hand off your sword," he ordered imperiously. "I won't have my crew threatened."

"Nor will I," Porthos spat, gripping the hilt more tightly. "I want to know what the fuck he thought he was doing."

"As do I," Gavillier said smoothly. "But there may be a perfectly reasonable explanation."

Porthos wanted to hit him, rage until the man understood that even if Aramis had killed every member of the crew in cold blood Porthos would never have allowed this, but he held his tongue, realizing there were better ways to get what he wanted.

"He 'it me!" the third mate cried, emboldened by Gavillier's presence. Sauvagne stalked up behind him, and he turned to the mate for support. "He struck a commandin' officer! That's a whippin' offense, that is!"

"He was provoked!" D'Artagnan interrupted hotly, stepping forward. "You hit me first, just because I called you out on being a terrible overseer!"

Gavillier eyed him thoughtfully. "I cannot punish him for that, for I did not see it. But from the sound of it, there are many here willing to vouch that your friend struck an officer."

He turned to Porthos, a look of aggrieved reluctance on his face. "I am sorry, my friend, but the rules are quite clear. Whipping is the only-"

"No." The word was a snarl.

Gavillier frowned. "Really, my friend, be reasonable. It's only a few lash-"

"No."

All around them, men shifted uneasily. Porthos knew he was skirting dangerously close to crossing the line from insubordinate to full on mutinous, but there was no way in hell he was ever going to allow this to happen.

He'd take down the whole ship first, and Gavillier with it, before a whip would ever touch Aramis again.

Murmurs spread through the crowd as Gavillier stared him down. He couldn't quite hear them, but he could sense the uncertainty and knew that if it came to a fight, at least part of the crowd would side with him over their captain's brutality.

Porthos knew Gavillier was trying to decide whether to give in or not. If he acquiesced and let Porthos win, he risked appearing weak before his crew. But to have his way, he knew he'd have to find some way to restrain Porthos before he could have Aramis whipped, and there was a good chance Porthos could kill him before he finished giving the order.

Cold eyes filled with hatred met his own for a long minute, then dropped away, a false smile taking the place of a grim frown.

"Perhaps this has all just been a misunderstanding," he said his voice oily as he stepped back, out of reach. "After all, your men are nothing more than landlubbers. They can't be expected to know the ways of the sea. We can forgive them this once, yes?"

"That's very generous of you," Porthos said, giving the expected reply.

Gavillier beamed, the light not quite reaching his eyes. "Excellent! Then we may put this whole sorry affair behind us. We shall end our day early, I think, and retire to the mess hall."

Porthos nodded, already stepping towards Aramis when Gavillier added, far more coldly, "Next time I shall not be so lenient."

Keeping his face blank, Porthos stepped neatly around him. He had expected the warning, but both he and Gavillier now understood that he would never allow Aramis, or any of brothers, to be whipped. If Gavillier gave that order, he would face a mutiny.

And he might not survive it.

Aramis was still staring at the third mate when Porthos reached him, the crowd already beginning to disperse at the promise of an early supper. Porthos laid a gentle hand on his arm and found himself facing glazed brown eyes.

He could see D'Artagnan stepping forward, no doubt about to ask whether Aramis was alright, but to his relief Athos grabbed the boy and dragged him off to the mess hall before he could say anything.

"Aramis?" he murmured, mindful of the handful of stragglers still on deck. Their presence was the only reason he hadn't already fallen to the rough planks on his knees to beg forgiveness for what had just happened.

With obvious difficulty, Aramis focused on him, a strained smile playing about his mouth. "I'm fine. Shall we go to dinner?"

"Athos and D'Artagnan can bring something to my cabin," he said with finality. Aramis didn't argue, allowing himself to be led below decks to Porthos's room.

Porthos pushed him gently onto the bed, but Aramis shook him off, a look of vague annoyance flashing across his face. "I'm fine. I'm not made of glass."

He accepted the reprimand without response, knowing Aramis was tense from all that had occurred. Instead of speaking the words he so wanted to, he sat beside him on the bed until D'Artagnan showed up with food, staying only long enough to apologize guiltily for getting Aramis into that mess.

At this, Aramis finally seemed to snap out of his dazed state, glaring at the young man. "It was not your fault," he said firmly, but D'Artagnan ran off before he could say more.

"Great, now he blames himself," Aramis said bitterly, pushing away the plate Porthos offered him. He hadn't really expected Aramis to eat after all that anyway. "It really wasn't his fault."

Porthos sighed, setting both plates aside. "I know. It was mine."

Aramis rolled his eyes heavenward, a flash of humor crossing his face. "Not you too."

He held up a hand when Porthos opened his mouth to apologize further. "Really, mon cher, I don't want to hear it. The only one to blame for what happened is that miserable excuse for a third mate." He shuddered melodramatically. "Ugly blighter."

"Aramis," Porthos began, torn between amusement and guilt, understanding Aramis did not want to talk about what had happened just yet. Aramis glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and leaned back slightly. A second later he dove theatrically across Porthos's lap, grinning up at him.

Porthos chuckled, accepting the easy forgiveness for what it was, even if it would be some time before he forgave himself. The tension was still too evident in his lover's body, and his smile didn't reach all the way to his eyes.

"Will you stay here tonight?" he asked hopefully, carding his fingers through Aramis's hair.

"Only if you ask nicely," Aramis teased, but Porthos could sense his relief.

Playing along, Porthos raised one hand to his heart gallantly. "Mon amour, it is my soul's one true desire that you- hey, no, stop laughin'," he said crossly, for Aramis had begun chuckling the moment he spoke. "Heartless bastard, that's what you are."

He shifted his hips so that Aramis slid with an alarmed squawk towards the floor, grabbing him at the last moment and hauling them both onto the bed.

Aramis swiped at him in mock anger, but Porthos caught his hand and yanked him in, kissing him gently until Aramis was relaxed against his chest. It was evident his lover was exhausted, and for once Porthos decided that sleep might be more important than sex.

"Go to sleep," he murmured, pulling Aramis further into his arms. Aramis sighed and settled against him, warm and pliant, wild curls tickling Porthos's nose. He was asleep in moments.

Porthos lay awake a while longer, content to just lay there feeling Aramis's warm breath against his neck. It had been too long since they'd had this.

He didn't know how long he had been lying there when he felt Aramis begin to stiffen in his arms, heartbeat thumping faster against Porthos's chest.

He grimaced. He'd been praying Aramis's sleep would be dreamless, but only a fool would have expected all that had happened would not stir up old nightmares.

Knowing it was coming didn't prevent the guilt from slamming into him afresh.

Aramis's breath hissed out in a strangled sound and Porthos carefully lifted a hand to stroke gently at dark curls, wrapping his other more securely around Aramis's waist. Gradually Aramis relaxed once more, but Porthos knew the memories would come again to torment him.

Pressing a kiss to Aramis's forehead, he settled back, pleased to find he wasn't especially tired.

He'd stay up all night if that's what it took to keep Aramis's dreams at bay.

D'Artagnan skulked in the rigging, watching the deck with a brooding glare that would have made Athos proud. From his perch, he could see Aramis oiling one of the cannons. The foul stuff seeped into everything and left slippery streaks across the deck, but at least no one was bothering him.

He hadn't missed the crews' dark looks that morning at call. Aramis was not forgiven for the albatross. The faint mark on his jaw had darkened overnight into a livid bruise, but the older Musketeer had seemed unconcerned with it, asking D'Artagnan if he'd been injured in the struggle.

Really, the man was self-sacrificing to a fault.

But Aramis wasn't the only one allowed to be protective, and so D'Artagnan had vowed to keep a weather eye on his friend. He'd be damned if he'd let that slimy third mate get his revenge.

Thankfully, that man was busy at the other end of the ship, but he wasn't the only threat. Even as D'Artagnan watched, one of the older privateers bumped heavily against Aramis, sending his hip crashing painfully against the side of the cannon.

D'Artagnan scowled, ready to leap down to the deck, but Aramis was carrying on as if nothing had happened. He settled back, curious now. A few minutes later, it happened again.

Still no reaction.

It was the work of a moment to fly through the rigging and land neatly on the railing beside Aramis, who, much to his disappointment, did not even seem startled.

"Don't stand there," he said with a small smile, gesturing at a section of the railing coated in shiny oil. "I keep forgetting not to touch things." The darkened spots on his shirt and breeches where oil had sunk in were testament to his words. D'Artagnan avoided the slick spot carefully; he had no wish to go for a swim.

He plopped down on the railing, glancing around to make sure none of the mates were in sight to tell him off. One of the older men was walking over with a shifty expression, but D'Artagnan gave him his best glare and he scuttled off.

Imitating Athos was working wonders.

Aramis sat back, swiping a hand across his brow. "Was there something you wanted?"

D'Artagnan shifted, suddenly uncomfortable as he tried to think how best to phrase his concerns. He found his eyes drawn to the black bruise and had to force himself to look away.

"It's just…" he began tentatively. "The crew. They aren't really treating you fairly."

Aramis raised an eyebrow at him. "No? Apparently that bird I shot will bring doom upon us all. I can hardly blame them for their resentment."

D'Artagnan frowned. Aramis was too ready to accept the ill treatment, but D'Artagnan couldn't help but wonder if there was a deeper edge to it all. "Maybe you ought to talk to Porthos about it?" he ventured hesitantly.

He knew he'd said the wrong thing when Aramis's smile fell. "I don't think that would be wise," he said slowly, as if he were choosing his words carefully. "I doubt he would take it well."

"Well, no, he'd hate it," D'Artagnan pointed out. "Isn't that the point?"

Aramis sighed. "Mon ami, haven't you noticed that when Porthos gets particularly… irritated… heads tend to roll?"

"Maybe some heads should roll," D'Artagnan murmured mutinously, winning a chuckle from the older Musketeer.

"Be that as it may, a real fight would be disastrous for all of us. Porthos doesn't need to know."

D'Artagnan stared. Aramis really wasn't going to tell him. "But he would want to know!"

Aramis's gaze hardened. "What he would want doesn't enter into it. It's best he doesn't know." He stared hard at D'Artagnan, usual good humor drained away. "You must swear to me you'll say nothing of this to Porthos."

"But Aramis…"

"Please, D'Artagnan."

He sighed. "Fine, I promise I won't tell Porthos."

Aramis nodded, apparently satisfied. "Good. Now, off with you before someone comes round to tell us off for lazing about."

He turned back to the cannon as D'Artagnan scrambled into the rigging. A moment later he landed behind him just out of sight and headed below decks.

Aramis had made him promise not to talk to Porthos, but he'd said nothing about Athos.

In his more introspective moments, D'Artagnan worried his time as a Musketeer was making him too devious for his own good, but what else could he expect with this lot?

Athos was exactly where he expected to find him: in his room, surrounded by empty wine bottles, and staggering drunk.

"Mon dieu, Athos, how much wine did you even bring?" he asked, amazed at the sheer number of bottles littering the floor. He was sure there'd been fewer when he'd woken on the floor this morning. In fact, his blanket was buried under several.

Athos leveled him with a deadly stare. "I told you never to question the amount I drink." His words were surprisingly even for someone who appeared to have consumed more than his own body weight in wine.

"Right, right, sorry!" he said quickly, not wanting to get kicked back to the crew quarters. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

Athos glared suspiciously, so he clarified, "Something unrelated to wine."

"Is something wrong?" Athos asked, growing slightly more alert.

"I'm not sure." D'Artagnan stepped over the wine bottles to reach the empty chair. Athos stayed slumped on the bed, but watched him intently. "The crew is, well, bullying Aramis."

Athos said nothing, but his eyes dropped away from D'Artagnan's. "It's nothing big, not that I've seen, but it's all the time. Small acts of malice."

Athos eyed him wearily. "Talk to Porthos."

"That's just it," D'Artagnan muttered, discouraged. "He doesn't want to tell Porthos, and he made me swear not to!"

"What do you expect me to do about it?" Athos asked, his voice heavy.

D'Artagnan stared at him. "Something. Anything. Can't you make them stop? It's not right!"

Something inside him felt almost betrayed at Athos's inaction. He was their leader; he was supposed to fix things like this.

As if Athos knew what he was thinking, he suddenly rose, frustration sweeping across his face. "I can't do anything!" he yelled, and there was something raw in his voice that froze D'Artagnan where he sat. "Don't you understand? I can't do anything!"

He fell silent, blue eyes burning into D'Artagnan's as if there was something so terribly obvious that he was missing. Whatever it was, he could tell something was very wrong. But before he could ask what Athos meant, there was a clatter in the hallway outside and a young crewman burst in, limping slightly but looking excited.

"You'd best come to the deck!" he cried eagerly. "A ship has been sighted!"

Chapter Text

Aramis joined Porthos at the rail less than half a minute before D'Artagnan and Athos came crashing up from below, following the boy Aramis had sent. He seemed to be limping slightly, but with white sails on the horizon, Porthos didn't have time to think about that.

"Is it La Doncella?" Aramis asked eagerly, pressing against his side in an attempt to see down the long spyglass Gavillier had lent Porthos.

He passed it over, grinning. "It's the right size. Better fetch the weapons, D'Artagnan."

The lad nodded eagerly, disappearing below decks. In an absurdly short period of time he was back, his own weapons haphazardly buckled on and Aramis's spilling from his arms. Porthos saved the arquebus just before it could tumble to the planks.

"All hands on deck!" was the bellowing call going around now, and men were streaming from the hold and the rigging, jumping in response to barked orders.

"Should we join them?" D'Artagnan asked, struggling to straighten his sword belt, which he'd somehow managed to put on backwards.

Porthos shook his head, reaching out to slip the strap of Aramis's arquebus over his head carefully so as not to dislodge his hat. "Nah, we stay here. Captain and I agreed we'd board with the first party and try to find our man before he gets himself killed by pirates."

"We'll see some action, at any rate," Athos said, his mouth curling up ever so slightly into a pleased smile. Aramis and D'Artagnan echoed it with far less reserve. Porthos felt his own blood stir at the promise of some action after so long on the ship.

The shouted commands were like a song in his blood, stirring up memories of dozens of boardings, back when he'd been oceans away from the respectable Musketeer he was today. He grinned ferally and tightened the knot in his bandanna.

"They'll try and gun them down first", he explained, pulling his brothers away from the rails to leave room for the men loading the cannons. "Take enough pieces out 'o her that she'll have to stop runnin'. That's when we board."

Athos and D'Artagnan nodded once before the latter dragged the other off to watch the guns being prepared. Aramis was watching him thoughtfully, an unhappy crease between his eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked curiously, idly checking that his sword was still loose enough in his sheathe.

Aramis glanced around the deck, his gaze lingering on privateers wielding wicked blades and rusty knives. "Doesn't this seem a little barbaric to you?"

Porthos frowned at the unexpected qualm. "Aramis, this is what we do."

Aramis shook his head. "No, what we do is deliver the King's justice. We only kill the enemy, Porthos. The men on that ship are simple Spanish merchants. How can we justify killing them?"

"We're at war with Spain in all but name, Aramis," Porthos told him. "This is what privateerin's about. Men who work the seas know the risk."

"They are innocent men. It's not even a warship. It doesn't seem right to kill them." Aramis was shifting uncomfortably now, dark eyes gazing at him earnestly, and he realized that Aramis was too honorable to be a pirate. But it was a bit late for that.

He stepped closer, pitching his voice low so the men bustling about the deck preparing to fire the cannons wouldn't hear. "I'm sorry, love, but there's not much we can do. We gotta do our part, and if that means we gotta kill some Spanish, then…" he let his words trail off into a shrug.

Aramis's eyes narrowed, a flicker of anger burning in them. "So I should set aside my conscience and become a murderer?" he asked bitterly.

Porthos sighed in frustration. "No, course not, but what else can we do? You might find it a bit distasteful, but necessity, you know?"

At that moment, Athos appeared at his shoulder. He had apparently been listening in, for he said, "If we capture the Spanish captain quick enough, the fight will end, correct?" Porthos nodded. "So that is our plan. Kill only those you must."

He laid a hand on Aramis's shoulder, who nodded, obviously resting easier with this plan than the first. Porthos followed him and Athos to the rail, wondering when death had begun to seem to commonplace to him.

They were almost upon the ship now, and Porthos could hear frantic calls in Spanish drifting across the narrowing gap between them. From the way Aramis's face twisted bitterly, they were pleas for mercy.

The first volley from the guns on deck was deafening, slamming into the side of the smaller merchant vessel with explosive force and sending showers of splinters across the defenders. The following volley from the second level of guns punched holes along the hull and decimated the defenses.

It was sickeningly easy.

"Pull 'er in!" he heard Sauvagne shout from somewhere astern, and he grabbed up a pile of rope and hooks, thrusting them at the others to use to get across. It took them all a few tries to snag their hook securely along the railing of the enemy ship, but at last even Aramis managed it. As one, they hauled the ropes, dragging the listing ship closer to their own.

"Boarders away!" Gavillier's voice rang out, and Porthos instinctively grabbed at the free hanging ropes above their heads, shoving the ends into his brothers' hands as he himself leap onto the railing, preparing to swing.

The other deck was a roiling mass of men and smoke. Aramis scrambled up beside him, using his shoulder for support for a moment. Porthos didn't have time to turn before a gunshot blasted uncomfortably close to his ear, picking off a man on the opposite deck who'd been leveling a pistol at his heart.

"Stop making yourself a target!" Aramis shouted, shoving him hard off the railing so he swung to the other ship. A moment later he joined him there, his rapier already drawn.

The deck was heaving, slick with blood and hazy with smoke, tilted heavily to one side where their guns had punched her hull full of holes, but Aramis for once seemed to have no trouble with the unsteady surface. Before Porthos could react he'd dashed forward and slammed the hilt of his sword into the head of a boy much younger than D'Artagnan, dropping him to the deck.

"Let's get going!" he yelled grimly, and Porthos nodded as D'Artagnan and Athos landed behind them, familiar battle rage setting his veins alight.

The fight to capture a vessel was an endless, breathing thing: this Porthos remembered well. Time seemed to crawl as they fought their way up the deck, aiming for the main cabin and hopefully the captain. Aramis was steadfastly trying not to kill, but Porthos had no choice but to skewer a few who took Aramis's mercy as weakness.

The privateers were not so honorable, and bodies already littered the deck as Sauvagne cut a bloody swath through the defenders with the crew.

"If he kills Reynard, we'll lose any information he might have about the plot against the king!" Athos yelled, but they both knew the only way to stop the massive mate was to capture the captain and end the fight.

He cast a glance over his companions, relieved to see none of them had taken any injuries from the fight thus far. Of course, they were fighting merchants, not soldiers, but even weak men could fight like the devil when cornered.

"There!" D'Artagnan shouted suddenly, pointing past him. Porthos followed his gaze and saw a tall man shouting orders anxiously, a sword a pistol gripped in his shaking hands.

"Let's end this," Athos said grimly, striding forward, but Aramis reached the man first. The man's attempts at dueling would have been comical in another situation, but as it was Porthos could only feel bad for him as Aramis twisted the sword easily out of his grasp with a move that caught the admiration of a few nearby crew members.

"I accept your surrender," Aramis said charmingly, leveling his blade at the captain's throat. He graciously allowed the man to place his pistol back at his belt. The frightened gentlemen was obviously no threat to them.

Porthos grinned, pleased that Aramis had been the one to deliver the ship. He grabbed a nearby privateer, the same boy Aramis had sent earlier for Athos and D'Artagnan. "Inform the captain that the ship is ours."

A ragged cheer went up from the nearby crewmen as the remained fighters threw down their weapons in surrender. Porthos stepped forward to stand beside Aramis, who looked a bit pleased despite himself. "We'll make a pirate out of you yet, love," he teased quietly.

Aramis rolled his eyes but Athos joined them before he could respond, going straight to the disarmed captain, who watched him warily. "Relax. You will not be harmed. Is there a man named Reynard aboard this ship?"

"R-Reynard?" the man asked, obviously terrified by the sight of Athos's blood stained rapier. Athos sighed and sheathed it with a bored expression.

"Now can you tell m-" he began, but a growing cheer signaled the arrival of Gavillier and Sauvagne.

"Porthos, my friend, you have given me a mighty gift!" Gavillier crowed, striding forward. Before Porthos could protest that it was technically Aramis who'd captured the ship, the fallen captain broke in.

"You!" he cried, staring at Gavillier in horror. "Le capitaine l'impitoyable!" He stumbled back a step, his hand fumbling at his waist for the pistol Aramis had let him keep.

The pistol.

Acting on instinct, Porthos slammed his shoulder into Gavillier's just at the gun fired.

The bullet from Aramis's arquebus slammed into the captain even as he spun around the where Porthos and Gavillier had both dropped to the deck. His legs felt weak with relief when he realized Porthos was already attempting to push himself up, wincing. Blood made a line across his right sleeve.

Porthos tried to put weight on the arm and it buckled. He bit back a groan that sounded more irritated than pained.

Aramis was at his side in a heartbeat, pulling him upright and carefully pushing back the bloody fabric. The tension in his body eased at once when he saw the wound was far from severe.

"Of course the damned thing would hit me," Porthos muttered sullenly, trying to keep still. Beside them, Gavillier scrambled to his feet.

Aramis chuckled, still weak with relief. "Just a graze." Porthos's grin answered his own, but it fell when Aramis added, "Needs stitches, though."

Porthos gave an exaggerated groan as Aramis ripped a strip from Porthos's own shirt to bind the wound. Then Gavillier was there, offering Porthos a hand to help him to his feet with a concerned expression.

"My friend, I am so sorry!" he cried, his tone more injured than Porthos himself. "I simply cannot believe that coward was allowed to hold onto a loaded pistol!"

"My own fault," Porthos grunted quickly, but Aramis had already felt the weighty stares of the crewmembers who'd witnessed him allowing the man his gun. Thankfully, none of them spoke.

"His men must be punished for his crimes!" Gavillier said hotly, turning a dangerous glare on the surrendered sailors. Aramis shifted forward, ready to protest that these men were innocent, but Athos beat him to it.

"I don't believe that would be necessarily," he said, his tone unpleasantly ingratiating, but Aramis knew that open disdain would be met with hostility. "After all, we still need to interrogate them about the identity of the man who betrayed us."

He leveled a pointed look at Porthos, who caught on quickly. "Exactly. I was hopin' you'd leave the prisoners to me, eh?"

Gavillier's eyes were hard, but he smiled brightly. "You just saved my life! Anything you want, it's yours." He held out a hand as if to shake, but then drew back, a concerned look replacing the hard one.

It was almost perfect enough to be real.

"Ah, but you're injured!" he said, gesturing at Porthos's arm. "You'd best get that seen to. My men'll get the prisoners back to La Catin while we visit Ebert and get that looked at."

Aramis wanted to protest Gavillier's inclusion, but there was nothing he could say to stop it. They followed Porthos back over the rail, stepping over bodies hacked nearly to pieces in the brutal assault. Aramis tried not to look at the faces, unwilling to hear those pleas for mercy in his head.

"Aramis, I'd better go," a voice at his elbow muttered in halting Spanish as he reached the rail. Belén had finally been allowed out of his exile and back on active duty. Aramis was grimly pleased that the boy seemed stricken by the excessive violence. He was planning to introduce him to his brothers, but everything had been too busy thus far. He nodded a farewell as the boy vanished back into the crew.

Ebert was working on an injured man when they arrived, but when he saw Porthos he immediately abandoned his patient in favor of the large Musketeer. Aramis glanced over at the sailor, but it was clear he was beyond help, so he forced himself to turn his attention away.

"This is a bad cut," Ebert said, removing the makeshift bandage and peering at the wound. "I'll have to cauterize it."

Porthos blanched and Aramis stepped forward angrily, a scar on his shoulder twinging in sympathy. Gavillier sent him a dark look, but he ignored it. "Cauterize it? Are you mad? It's easily shallow enough for stitches."

"I am the surgeon on this ship," Ebert hissed, hostility evident in his bearing, but Porthos shook his head.

"You see to the rest. Aramis'll set me straight," he told the man, shooting Aramis a lopsided grin.

Ebert glared at Aramis, but he couldn't disobey Porthos in front of Gavillier. With an angry nod, he turned away, leaving the injured man to die as he left the cabin.

Athos was already rummaging through drawers, pulling out a spool of thread and several needles. He and D'Artagnan piled them on a table while Porthos carefully removed his shirt, wincing as the cloth pulled at the wound. Gavillier made sympathetic noises.

Being this close to the captain set him on edge, but he was able to ignore him by focusing on Porthos.

Aramis examined the wound carefully, but his earlier call had been correct: it was shallow but long, the bleeding already slowing. It would be a quick job.

If a painful one.

"D'Artagnan, fetch me the wine," he ordered, reaching to thread a needle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Athos stiffen slightly.

"No!" he exclaimed. When they turned to look at him, he muttered, "Use- use something else."

"There's grog in that cabinet," Gavillier said, making no move to fetch it himself. D'Artagnan hurried it over and Porthos drank heavily.

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and glared at Athos. "No knockin' me out this time," he warned. Athos shot him a wounded look but stayed out of arm's reach.

Aramis was peering at his tools during this exchange, his lips curling with disgust. "He uses these on people?" he asked, revolted at the state of the rusty needles. "I wouldn't sew a sail with them, let alone my belov- blood and flesh."

"Flesh and blood," D'Artagnan supplied helpfully when he remembered their audience in time to choke the last word off with a hasty replacement. Gavillier didn't seem to notice.

"Yes, thank you, D'Artagnan," he said weakly. He located a relatively clean needle at last and doused it in grog before stitching Porthos's arm as quickly as he could, hating every moment he had to cause his lover pain.

Gavillier all but knocked him aside the moment he was finished, demanding to know whether Porthos felt alright, or if he'd like him to break out his personal store of brandy. Porthos accepted the attention easily enough, but the warm look he shot Aramis spoke of his gratitude.

"We'd best deal with the prisoners," Athos said quietly after a minute of this.

"Yeah, right." Porthos rose, rolling his shoulder to check the stitches and grinning at Aramis when they didn't pull.

They made their way up the deck to discover a miserable huddle of prisoners standing near the mast. Aramis wasn't sure, but he could have sworn there were more before.

"Alright, you maggots, who's gonna tell my friend here what he wants to know?" Gavillier growled, stalking towards the men, who pressed against each other as they tried to back away.

Porthos stepped after him after Athos gave him a nod. "Right. Anyone here 'eard of a man named Reynard?"

He was met with blank stares. "Come on, we know he was on your ship. Just say which he is, and we'll let you go," Gavillier added.

Still the men stared, watching him like a cornered mouse watches a cat. Gavillier glanced at Sauvagne. "They don't seem to want to chat."

Sauvagne nodded. "Right." A moment later a knife gleamed in his hand.

"Wait a moment," Porthos said hastily. "There's no call for that. You promised you'd leave the prisoners to me."

"Ah, so I did," Gavillier said with a charming smile. "Please, let us interrogate them your way."

Porthos glanced over and caught Aramis's eye, jerking his head first at one nervous looking man, then at the railing.

Oh.

Aramis swaggered forward, grinning at the huddle. "Why Porthos, if our friends don't want to talk, perhaps they'd like to do something else," he said innocently. He could feel the eyes of the crew on him, considering.

"Well, what'd you have in mind?" Porthos asked, matching his step as they slowly cornered their target.

"I was thinking something a bit more… recreational." With perfect timing they swept in and grabbed the unlucky man's arms, dragging him to the side in one easy motion. Porthos casually leaned over the railing, pulling the man's upper body with him.

"Lookit that sea, would ya? How do you feel about a swim?" he asked the man, grin firmly in place. The man looked to Aramis for support.

"But Porthos, don't you think that's a bit unfair?" he asked, affecting a frown. "After all, there's a lot of sharks down there today."

The man glanced down at the waves nervously. Right on cue, Athos and D'Artagnan stepped up beside them.

"There's one," Athos said casually, gesturing at a spot just past Porthos's shoulder, where the man's view was blocked. When he turned to look, D'Artagnan did the same on the other side, adding, "It looks hungry," with youthful glee.

The man yanked against them, but they held him fast. "Now, now," Aramis murmured soothingly. "Don't fret! If we see a shark coming after you, I promise I'll shoot it." The look the man gave him was one of pure fear.

Porthos made a tsking sound. "Nah, don't want to do that. The blood'll just bring more of them."

"Oh, that is a shame," Aramis sighed, pretending to lean back from the side even as he subtly tightened his grip. "Still, it seems a shame to waste such a perfect day." With that he tipped the man over the side.

When the man stopped screaming he realized he was dangling over the water, held firmly in place by their grasp on his shoulders. "Pull me up, pull me up!" he screamed desperately.

"I dunno, Aramis, I think my hand's getting tired," Porthos yawned.

"I'll tell you what you want to know!" the man blabbered in Spanish, swinging his legs. "Where Reynard went! Anything! Just let me up!"

Aramis nodded at Porthos and, grinning, they hauled back and deposited the spluttering man on the deck. "Take him below," Porthos called to the bosun. "Our man's not here, but Athos'll get our information."

Athos and D'Artagnan disappeared below with the blubbering man, and Porthos shot Aramis a triumphant smile. Aramis could feel eyes on them, and for once he felt they were approving.

And then Gavillier stepped up.

"Well, that was an interesting way of obtaining information," he said silkily. "Now that you have the man you need, we'll have to get rid of the rest of them."

Aramis stiffened, and Porthos brushed against his shoulder in a warning that went unheeded. "What do you mean, get rid of them?" he asked, trying to keep his tone even.

Gavillier gave him a cold stare. "They're of no use to us. We can't keep them as hostages, and we don't need extra men. So we'll… dispose of them."

Aramis stared back at him in horror as men began stepping forward, knives gleaming in their hands. Before he could say another word, one had run through the young man he'd knocked out during the fight, bright blood spilling across the deck.

"No!" he yelled, leaping forward, desperate to prevent this shocking waste of life, but Porthos's arm was an iron band around his waist, dragging him to the dark entrance of the hold.

"There's nothing we can do!" Porthos muttered, his voice breaking as he shoved Aramis down the ladder. Aramis fought against him, but Porthos was too strong, and dragged him relentlessly towards his cabin, away from the carnage.

But he couldn't drown out the screams.

Chapter Text

"What are you doing? We have to go back!" Aramis cried, straining to break free of Porthos's grasp, but the arms around his waist were too strong, and he couldn't get away. It hit him that he couldn't do anything even if he made it back to the deck except get himself killed as well, and at last he stopped struggling and allowed Porthos to drag him into his cabin.

"We shouldn't have let that happen," he muttered, leaning against the wall. Porthos was pacing, his footsteps almost enough to drown out the last of the screams.

Almost.

And then it went silent.

Aramis slammed his head back against the wall in helpless frustration with a heavy thud. Porthos growled and grabbed his arm, pulling him away, but Aramis shook him off. "We should have done something!" he said again, willing Porthos to agree.

"There was nothing we coulda done," Porthos argued, not quite meeting his eye.

"We could've done anything! Anything, other than nothing."

"Well, what else were they going to do?" Porthos asked, sounding frustrated now as he resumed pacing. "We're in the middle of the fucking ocean, Aramis. Keeping that many prisoners would be impossible."

"Are you defending them?" Aramis asked incredulously. "That was murder, Porthos!"

"I know, I know, but did you see another solution?" Porthos kicked at the floor as he walked, anger on his face. "I don't like it any more than you, but what other option was there?"
"Would you have done it?" Aramis asked quietly, needing to hear the answer. "If you were the captain, could you have killed those men?" He saw the boy's face in his mind, and prayed for the right answer.

Porthos sat heavily on the bed, rubbing a hand over his face. "God, I hope not," he said softly. Aramis sighed, relieved, even though he'd already known the answer, and moved to sit beside him, their thighs brushing.

"We'd better go find Athos and D'Artagnan," Aramis said at last. They needed to know where their quarry had gone. Porthos nodded and rose.

They made it halfway down the hallway before realizing neither knew where the man had been taken. Aramis's expression must have echoed Porthos's sheepish one, for a moment later they had both cracked reluctant grins before quickly straightening their faces.

"We could check Athos's room?" Aramis asked, his lip twitching despite the seriousness of the situation.

Porthos snorted, a laugh creeping into his voice. "You think he'd let a prisoner near his wine?"

"Maybe the hold?" Aramis suggested.

"They're in the brig," a voice said from behind them, and Aramis fought the urge to jump at the unpleasant nearness of it. Gavillier was striding down the hallway towards them. There was no sign of blood on his shining blade, but Aramis had no doubt it had been there.

"Thanks," Porthos said easily, turning to go, but Gavillier called after them.

"Actually, my friend, I was hoping to join you and your men for this," he said, catching up with them.

"Oh, don't worry yourself." Porthos was trying to keep him away from their business, but Aramis could already tell it wasn't going to work.

He was right. "I like to know what's happening on my own ship." This time the words were layered with command, and Porthos had no choice but to shrug in acceptance.

They made their way through the ship to a deeper level that Aramis had never been to before, dank and dark and with a thin level of water sloshing across the floor.

Good God, was the ship leaking?

He didn't have a chance to ask, not with Gavillier walking far too close behind him. An urge to run the man through with his sword flashed through him, but he swallowed it. Murdering the captain would not be a good idea.

Well, not just yet, at any rate.

He entertained amusing ideas of all manner of 'accidents' that could befall the predatory man as they passed through the rusty iron bars that made up the row of cells in the brig, stopping at the last. Within it, Athos and D'Artagnan were speaking quietly to the Spanish prisoner from the deck.

Or, more accurately, at him.

Athos glanced up at them when they arrived, blue eyes flicking over Gavillier with wary interest before landing on Aramis. "You sent us a prisoner with a very limited grasp of French," he said wryly. "You're going to have to speak to him."

Aramis nodded and stepped forward. "Has he said anything yet?"

"Nothing we could understand, though we caught the name Reynard several times," D'Artagnan informed him.

Aramis turned his attention to the man standing uncomfortably in the center of the room. "Buenos días, amigo," he said with a charming smile. "¿Qué puedes decirme sobre Reynard?"

The man eyed him nervously but responded in rapid Spanish. "Pagó su pasaje en A Coruña. En plena. Guardado para sí mismo. Hace unos días, nos encontramos con un título carabela para las Antillas y él medió paso en ella y nos fuimos."

"Se ha ido?" Aramis asked sharply. The man nodded, and he sighed, turning back to the others.

"Reynard is gone. A caravel met them a few days back and he was able to barter passage on it. Still heading for the Antilles, according to our friend here."

Porthos cursed, making the prisoner jump, but Athos spoke calmly. "Then we shall simply have to continue as we have until we catch up."

The man was regarding them curiously, and suddenly he spoke up. "Musketeers," he said, very clearly. "Reynard was afraid of Musketeers." Then his French failed him and he continued in Spanish, "¿Cuáles son los mosqueteros que hacen en un barco pirata francés?"

Aramis frowned at the use of the word 'pirate ship,' but before he could make inquiries Gavillier had stepped forward threateningly.

"What's he mean, Musketeers?" he asked, looking at Porthos. "You said you were hunting down a traitor!"

Porthos hesitated, glancing to Athos for confirmation. "We are," Athos said smoothly, apparently deciding the lie had run its course. "A traitor to the crown."

Gavillier glared at Porthos, ignoring Athos completely. "Why did you lie to me?" he asked, and Aramis could detect a dangerous edge to his tone. His shoulders had gone up, and for a moment he thought Gavillier might attack. Why was the man so threatened by Musketeers?

Porthos shifted, shrugging in an unconcerned manner. "Well, I wasn't going to tell you in front of the whole crew, was I?" he asked reasonably. "And after that it just never came up."

"You should have told me," Gavillier said belligerently. Aramis felt his hand shift for the hilt of his sword at the open aggression in the captain's voice, but Porthos didn't seem to notice.

"It doesn't change anything," Porthos argued. "We still need to get to the Antilles, right? Is there a problem?"

Gavillier glared for a moment longer before a smile crawled across his face. It was the most disingenuous expression Aramis had ever seen. "Of course not," he said, his voice oily. "You've gone up in the world, old friend."

Porthos chuckled. "That I have."

Gavillier nodded toward the prisoner. "Are you done with him then?" Without waiting for an answer, he stepped forward and plunged a dagger into the prisoner's stomach.

The man didn't even have time to cry out before he fell to the ground, dead.

Athos had to grab D'Artagnan to keep him back. Aramis felt sick to his stomach with disgust at the brutality, but he couldn't say that he hadn't honestly expected it.

"I'll send someone down to clean this up," Gavillier said casually, wiping the bloodied blade clean on the dead man's shirt. "I hope you'll join me for dinner tonight, Porthos." Then he turned and walked out.

"Well, that was… unexpected," Athos said quietly. He sounded faintly shocked. D'Artagnan was livid with rage beside him.

Aramis stared at the body, remembering the glint of rage in Gavillier's eyes when he heard that they were Musketeers. It was time someone said something.

"I think we need to keep an eye on the captain. He's brutal, and he wasn't happy to learn he was hosting Musketeers." D'Artagnan stilled at the words and Athos looked up, considering. But Porthos shook his head.

"We don't have to worry about him. That's just how it is out here. It just caught him by surprise."

Aramis sighed in frustration. "Porthos, look around you! He just had a dozen men killed in cold blood, another right in front of us! He is not a good man."

"We talked about this," Porthos insisted. "There's nothing else that coulda been done."

"Regardless," Aramis pressed on, unwilling to give up so easily. He knew Gavillier was dangerous, and he needed Porthos to see that. "He sees us all as a threat now."

Porthos scoffed. "He's a privateer, licensed by the King. He's got no reason to dislike Musketeers."

"Unless he's involved in something he shouldn't be," Athos said quietly.

"I know he was your friend, Porthos, but that was years ago," Aramis added. "A lot can change."

"He's given us no reason to mistrust him," Porthos said stubbornly. The set of his shoulders told Aramis that he could argue until he was blue in the face and never change his lover's mind. Loyalty was everything to Porthos, and even Charon's betrayal hadn't taught him to be suspicious of his friends. It just wasn't in him.

Athos met Aramis's eyes and he saw the same realization there. Aramis sighed.

"Perhaps you're right," he said at last, relenting. "But let's just be careful, shall we?" A murmur of agreement came from Athos and D'Artagnan, and finally Porthos nodded as well.

"Alright. But you'll see, he's a good man. I'd trust him with my life."

I wouldn't trust him with yours, Aramis thought as they left the dark brig. But he knew Porthos would never be convinced. All he could do was hope he was wrong and brace for the coming storm.

Dinner that night was a tense affair. Try as he might, Porthos couldn't fully disguise the fact that he had been shocked by Gavillier's brutality, and he knew the other officers at the table could see it written on his face.

Despite what he'd told Aramis, he hadn't thought his old friend was capable of such callousness. He was being forced to reevaluate much of what he had taken for granted, and he didn't like the picture that was being painted.

His arm stung where Aramis had stitched it, but it was dulled by the amount of alcohol he'd already consumed. All he wanted was to get back to his cabin and see about sneaking Aramis in. He didn't want to be alone tonight, and if he knew Aramis, he didn't either.

But first to get through this dinner.

He ate methodically, barely able to taste the food, though he knew it was unusually fine for a meal so late in a voyage. The crew certainly wasn't eating this well. He hoped Aramis had eaten something.

"Porthos, my friend, you've barely touched your dinner," Gavillier said, interrupting a story the bosun was telling to cast a concerned look in his direction. "Is everything all right?" A flicker of something dark in his eyes told Porthos he hadn't fooled him with his forced nonchalance.

"Everything's fine," he said carefully, making a show of enjoying the fish on his plate. Gavillier nodded, apparently satisfied, and returned his attention to the bosun.

Porthos swallowed heavily, the food sitting like lead in his stomach. He had no appetite at all. He couldn't stop hearing his own words in his head, backed by the screams of murdered men.

God, I hope not.

Part of him had hoped Aramis would call him on his evasion, but he hadn't seemed to notice. Or perhaps he hadn't wanted to. But Porthos had known what he was saying, and he knew that he hadn't said no, not really.

How could he, when he didn't know himself?

He groped for his grog and took a long draught, trying to wash away the feeling that he was tainted somehow by his own weakness. He wanted to believe he wouldn't have killed those men, but he just couldn't, because he wasn't sure, and it terrified him.

He found himself praying the dinner would end quickly, so he could go to Aramis and see that faith in his eyes, that proof that he was a man of honor and not a scoundrel. Maybe Aramis's faith would be strong enough to restore his own.

He glanced up and found Gavillier watching him again, a faint smile playing about his lips. Suddenly he rose to his feet, arms thrown wide at the rest of his guests.

"My friends, I am truly sorry, but I must cut our evening short. There is something of grave importance that I must discuss with Porthos here." One hand dropped to Porthos's shoulder, and he felt as if he had been claimed. It made the hairs on the back of his neck rise uneasily.

The officers filed out without complaint, either too used to Gavillier's ways or too cowed to dare speak up.

After today, Porthos was no longer sure it wasn't the second one.

"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" he asked tiredly, setting his knife and fork down and reaching for his bottle once more. He hoped this wasn't going to take too long, or he could abandon his hopes of seeing Aramis tonight.

"We make a good team, Porthos, do we not?" Gavillier asked, idly leaning his chair back to prop his feet upon the table. "We work so well together."

"Yeah, I suppose we do," Porthos said warily. He sensed a trap, but he couldn't tell where it was coming from. What was the captain playing at?

"Just like old times again, eh, my friend?" Gavillier lifted his bottle in a toast, and Porthos drank obediently, hoping to speed things along. "You and I, sailing the seas together, taking prizes and cutting throats."

Porthos frowned. "I don't do much throat cuttin' anymore," he muttered, beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. "Not outside what I'm ordered to do, anyway."

Gavillier was running a finger pensively around the rim of his glass. "It sounds a terrible bore, to have to follow orders all the time. Where's your freedom? Don't you miss the seas?"

"It's not too bad," Porthos shrugged. "Parade's ain't fun, but the life is excitin'."

"More exciting than this?" Gavillier swept his arms out and gestured to the luxurious cabin. "Admit it, friend, you've thought of returning. I would love to have you by my side once more. You and I, taking on the Spanish merchant fleet!"

"I've got a life now," Porthos told him firmly. He thought of the missions that got his blood pounding, the long nights carousing in the tavern, Aramis's lips against his own. "I'm happy."

Gavillier's eyes narrowed ever so slightly before he smiled again. "Ah, but of course. The glorious life of a King's Musketeer. But tell me, is anything you do now as exhilarating as the time we took that little Spanish galleon off the coast of the New World? Ah, remember the fight they put up! And the gold, oh, those were the days."

"I remember that one of 'em almost took your head clean off," Porthos smirked, settling back as the memory washed over him. "An' we got stinkin' drunk next time we hit port and burned through our winnings in three days."

Gavillier laughed. "Ah, how young and foolish we were. Thank heavens I've learned to be a better hand with my funds."

"I seem to recall you used to spend a lot of time out at the brothels," Porthos chuckled. "They'd kick you out once your pockets were empty."

"Ah, those women knew what a man wanted," Gavillier sighed nostalgically. "You can't deny me my little diversions, Porthos. Diversions come and go, but friends stay forever."

There was an implication in his words that Porthos didn't like. "Yeah, friends do."

"Porthos, Porthos, come back to the sea. I know what Musketeers make, and it's not much. You could be a rich man. Together we could rule a whole armada, and be pirate lords, enthroned at Tortuga!" Gavillier's voice was like honey, dripping with the promise of all the things they'd used to talk about, all the dreams Porthos had before Treville had found him visiting the Court.

He didn't respond right away, because the truth was he did miss it, the smell of the sea and the salty breeze on his skin and standing in the tops with the world stretched out before him.

Gavillier took his silence as encouragement. "Leave behind your life or servitude. Embrace freedom, once again!"

"I can't," he said at last, and his voice sounded small and weak. He hated it, as he hated that he couldn't deny how badly part of him wanted to accept. "I have a family, now, and friends back on shore. I can't leave my brothers."

Gavillier's face hardened in an instant, a sneer curling his lips. His handsome face looked vicious, and cold, and nothing like the young man Porthos had known so long ago. "You can't leave them, or you can't leave Aramis?" The way he said Aramis's name stoked a fire within him, burning away the haze the grog had left in his mind.

"What's he got to do with anything?" Porthos's tone had gone low and threatening, and he knew he was giving too much away, but he wouldn't stand to hear anyone talk of Aramis in that tone.

"He's holding you back," Gavillier told him, his voice low and dangerous. "You would give up all that I can offer, all the freedom of the sea, for him? I know how it is between you, Porthos. Is he really worth all that? There are plenty of others who'd happily share your bed."

Porthos was on his feet before he realized what he was doing. "Don't ever talk about 'im like that again," he growled, the tension he'd felt between them since he first boarded the ship solidifying. "He's mine."

Gavillier's eyebrows rose fractionally as he stood, lifting his hands in a placating gesture. "Peace, my friend. I do not wish to fight. I had not realized how… important… he was to you. Accept my apologies."

Porthos met eyes shining with sincerity and nodded a brusque acceptance, knowing the trust between them had been shattered. It didn't matter. They would maintain a façade of amity until they reached port.

"I gotta go," he muttered, managing not to snarl his goodnight at Gavillier as he left. He stalked onto the deck, ready to storm into the crew quarters and drag Aramis to his cabin in front of everyone so no one would dare think such things again, but something caught his eye and he paused.

A small figure was huddled at the other end of the deck, face lifted to gaze at the stars.

Aramis.

Porthos walked over, feeling his anger draining the closer he got, wiped away just by his lover's presence. Aramis startled when he drew near, relaxing when he recognized him.

"What're you doing out here?" Porthos asked softly, pressing his shoulder against Aramis's. The smaller man was wearing his leather jacket, but he still felt chilled to the touch, so Porthos wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him close, no longer caring who saw.

"I'm on watch," Aramis shrugged, snuggling happily against Porthos's side. "Is something wrong?"

Porthos sighed, tightening his grip. He meant to confide his suspicions about Gavillier, admit that Aramis might have been right, but instead he blurted out, "Am I a good man?"

Aramis glanced up at him, starlight reflecting in his dark eyes. "Yes," he said without hesitation. "Mon cher, you are the best of men."

He felt helpless and powerful all at once in the face of Aramis's belief. "I hope you're right," he muttered, ducking his head to press his cheek against Aramis's hair.

"Even if I am wrong," Aramis said seriously, turning in his arms to face him. "It wouldn't matter to me." He leaned in and kissed him soundly, and Porthos surrendered to the comfort he offered, giving all he could in return.

"Why?" he asked when they broke apart, marveling at the ease with which Aramis could heal his fractured soul.

Aramis pulled back, whispering his next words breathlessly against his lips.

"Because you are mine."

Chapter Text

It was barely past dawn, and the dark room already felt like an oven as Aramis meticulously cleaned the surgeon's tools one after another. Normally such a task would seem mind-numbingly boring, but after seeing the state of the cabin and tools, Aramis was happy to give them a proper cleaning.

It could be Porthos's life they saved, or Athos or D'Artagnan. He wouldn't let that saw-wielding madman of a surgeon near them with anything less than pristine instruments.

Said madman was leaning against the wall, his face drawn into a deep scowl. "What's taking so long?" he whined, spitting on the ground. Aramis had to fight not to scold him for such an unsanitary practice in a place of healing.

"They must be properly cleaned," he explained, trying to keep his voice calm. "They haven't been in ages," he added under his breath.

Ebert threatened, eyes narrowing. "What's that, boy?" he asked, stepping forward in a way that might have been threatening if Aramis hadn't taken down men far more intimidating than he with relative ease.

He rose to his full height, refusing to back down from Ebert's glare. He was a Musketeer of France, and he would not be bullied. The smaller man must have read the threat in his eyes, for he dropped his gaze and turned away, bumping heavily against the table so the newly cleaned tools spilled across the floor again.

Aramis growled and took a half step towards Ebert, who squeaked and scuttled from the room.

He frowned to himself, annoyed that he'd lost his temper, and bent to collect the scattered instruments.

He was halfway through wiping them down again when a faint sound came from the doorway behind him. Before he had time to turn and investigate, a heavy fist slammed into his lower back with enough force that his vision went dark around the edges for a moment.

He bit back a cry and grabbed the table for support, knocking the tools to the ground once more. He turned around to face the sudden assault and found Sauvagne looming behind him, Ebert skulking in his shadow with a triumphant grin on his sallow face.

He tensed for another blow, determined to evade it if it came, but Sauvagne merely kicked the now filthy tools away, sending them skittering under the work benches and tables.

"Pick 'em up," he ordered, his voice low and threatening. Aramis stared him down, daring him to touch him again, before bending slightly and grabbing those still in reach.

Ebert suddenly darted out from behind Sauvagne, his foot connecting solidly with Aramis's stomach. Unprepared for the cowardly attack, Aramis dropped to his knees. Ebert leered and moved forward, obviously ready to press his advantage, but suddenly a hand was fisted at his shoulder.

"That's enough, I think," Gavillier said, his tone smooth as silk. Ebert blanched and scrambled backwards, fleeing the room, and a sharp look from Gavillier sent Sauvagne following a moment later.

He offered a hand for Aramis to climb up, but he ignored him and rose stiffly, drawing the handful of dirty tools with him. Gavillier smirked at the refusal and waved a hand at his cleaning rags. "Don't let me stop you." He leaned against the wall, clearly intending to stay.

Aramis gritted his teeth against the sharp sting of rage as he sat down in one of the chair and focused instead on scrubbing the dirt ferociously off each tool, imagining the scalpel in his hand entering Gavillier's eye socket.

"That's a lovely earring," Gavillier said, unexpectedly breaking the tense silence. Aramis fought to keep his hand from reaching up and covering his earring, Porthos's earring. He'd liked wearing it before, liked feeling marked, but under Gavillier's too intent stare, it felt more like a brand. He bit his lip and forced himself not to reply.

They sat in silence until Aramis raised a hand to dash the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, hating the way his shirt felt as if it were glued to his body from the unbearable humidity.

Gavillier suddenly stretched his arms above his head, reaching down to pull his shirt off in one smooth motion obviously designed to show off his impressively muscled chest. Aramis had to hide a laugh at his expense: he had nothing on Porthos.

Gavillier seemed to sense he was not appropriately affected, for he flashed a predatory smile. "Why don't you take that off? You'll be cooler without it."

Aramis felt his face harden in an instant. "No, thank you," he replied coolly, not bothering to hide his distaste.

Gavillier shook his head. "I do not see why we cannot simply get along. We ought to be friends. We share so much, you and I."

Aramis's head shot up at the thinly veiled insinuation, but he reminded himself that Gavillier could not be trusted. All the same, he couldn't quite banish the image Gavillier had planted, of him and Porthos…

He tried to rise, forgetting the blows he'd just taken, and had to bite back a hiss of pain. Gavillier stepped closer, a practiced look of concern on his features.

"You would do well to be my friend," Gavillier said, a strange smile on his face. "Your, shall we call it, ill treatment will end at once. Your life will become so much easier. I take such good care of my friends."

Again the insinuation that made Aramis clench his teeth. He retorted, "I don't think it's friendship you are offering. I will not be used." He felt dirty just voicing it.

Gavillier's smile broadened. "Is it really such a terrible offer? I am, after all not so different from what you prefer." He reached out a hand towards Aramis's face, and he smacked it away, remembering at the last minute to let go of the scalpel first.

"I would rather take the blows than blow you," he spat, deriving a sense of satisfaction at the ugly look that darkened Gavillier's face. He half expected him to try and hit him, his hand inching for the scalpel. He was done lying down.

But Gavillier attempted nothing. He merely smiled, an odd, dangerous expression, and said, "Come now, I doubt that's what Porthos would think." Then he nodded courteously and strolled out.

Aramis stared after him, seething. How dare he?

Despite himself, Porthos's words echoed in his ears.

You just gotta do whatever they tell you to.

But, no, there was no way he had meant this. In fact, Aramis was beginning to understand that the way he had been treated, the difficult duties, the punishment, were uncommon even under such a strict captain. Perhaps it was time he said something. He would not be seen as weak.

It took ages to finish cleaning the instruments properly, and then he was sent up into the rigging. By the time he was finished with his chores he was tired, hungry, and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a month. At least Belén had worked beside him in the tops, his eager, broken Spanish the bright point of his day.

The bosun sent him off early for once, and Aramis hurried below decks, looking forward to collapsing onto his hammock. He'd fallen from the rigging again and felt the force reverberate through the bruises Sauvagne and Ebert had left earlier. He was just glad the massive first mate hadn't caught him this time. He already had bruises atop his bruises.

The narrow hallway was mostly deserted at this time of day. Part of him was tempted to go look for Porthos, who he'd hardly seen for days, but he didn't know where he was and Aramis was utterly exhausted. If Porthos wanted him, he could come find him.

A moment later a hand shot out from a doorway to grab him, and Aramis laughed. Apparently Porthos had done just that. He allowed himself to be pulled in to the shadowy room, barely able to make out the dark shape in the gloom.

"And where have you been?" he asked teasingly, smiling when the figure stepped forward.

Suddenly he was upon him, thumbs driving painfully against healing bruises, digging into his ribs.

Gavillier's voice was low and intimidating. "I don't remember saying you could talk."

His blood froze in his veins. He should have seen this coming when Gavillier had walked away so easily that morning. He should have known the monster was lying in wait.

Aramis could feel the larger man's bulk pressing him up against the wall and tried to twist away, but Gavillier dug his thumbs deeper and Aramis stilled, praying that his eyes would adjust to the darkness.

"What do you want?" he hissed, trying to stall. His head snapped to the side as Gavillier's hand connected with his cheek in a vicious slap.

"That's twice now you've spoken without permission," Gavillier growled, and suddenly his hand was on Aramis's wrist, wrenching his arm above his head and pinning it to the wall. "And you were unforgivably rude this morning. I can't let that pass, you understand."

Aramis struggled, trying to land a blow, but in the darkness he was blind, his eyes still accustomed to the bright sunlight of the deck. Within a moment, Gavillier caught his other arm, holding Aramis's wrists in a crushing grasp with one hand while keeping him pinned to the wall with his chest. Aramis could feel his breath on his face and fought the urge to gag.

"How dare-" he began, but a second later Gavillier's hand landed heavily over his mouth, muffling his outraged protest.

"Why should Porthos have all the fun? You won't give me what I want, fine. I'll take it." Gavillier asked, a dark edge to his tone, and Aramis stiffened with understanding.

Desperation flared hot in his chest, narrowing down to one thought: escape.

With a fierce wrench of his neck, he managed to momentarily dislodge Gavillier's hand. Before the man could recover from the unexpected action, Aramis bit down on his hand, hard, feeling his teeth break the skin with sickening ease.

Gavillier swore, stepping back slightly as he yanked his hand free. It was all the opportunity Aramis needed. He brought his knee up swiftly and drove it between Gavillier's legs with as much force as he could muster in his awkward position.

Gavillier yelled and dropped heavily to his knees. He could have killed him then, snapped his neck to the side, but he didn't not yet, because it would put the others in danger, and he couldn't do that to them. Shoving him to the ground, Aramis darted around him, his only thoughts of reaching the hallway.

Behind him, he could hear Gavillier cursing furiously, hurling insults and terrible threats at his back, but he did not pause, half-running down the corridor until he reached Athos's rooms. Athos himself was up on deck, but Aramis didn't know where else to go for now.

Safe inside, he quickly slid the latch across the door and sank down on the bed, heart still pounding feverishly in his aching chest.

He'd never expected that; even after that morning, he'd never imagined the man would dare try and force his way to what he had so blatantly desired. He'd endured it in silence to keep them all safe, but now…

Now he would have to tell Porthos.

He supposed it would be satisfying to watch him tear Gavillier apart.

He waited until his breathing had settled before cautiously moving to the door and listening carefully to make sure that Gavillier was not lurking just beyond it. If he was, Aramis knew he wouldn't be able to stop himself from killing him then and there, weapon or not. Porthos had taught him enough tricks that he was sure he could take him down as long as he caught him by surprise.

Satisfied, he pushed it open, glancing down the hallway before setting off warily towards Porthos's cabin. He could only pray his lover was in his room.

Aramis met no one on the way, which was a blessing, because he felt as tightly wound as a spring. He reached the hallway where Porthos's cabin was located and paused.

He could hear Porthos's voice up ahead.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he stepped around the corner and froze.

Gavillier stood in the doorway of Porthos's room, tossing a knife in his hand so it turned end over end in a blinding flash of silver. He'd already wiped off the blood. He nodded suddenly, and Aramis realized he was who Porthos was speaking to.

Ever so casually, he glanced down the hallway, smiling coldly when he saw Aramis. The knife thunked into his palm and he held it for a beat, fingers caressing the handle. The threat was obvious.

It was clear this man was dangerously unpredictable, and Aramis could not guarantee that if he approached Porthos now Gavillier would not attack him to keep him silent. He wasn't worried for himself, but if Porthos got involved, if he got hurt because of Aramis…

Better to wait.

Silently, Aramis melted back down the corridor, Gavillier's menacing chuckle echoing behind him.

An insistent hand on his shoulder drew Porthos from a deep slumber, and he rolled over to face whoever dared wake him at this ungodly hour. He half hoped it was Aramis, because then he could drag him into the bed with him and keep him trapped until the breakfast bell, but instead he found himself face with that young lad that had been following Aramis like a puppy during the capture of La Doncella.

"What?" he barked out, pushing himself up with a threatening scowl. He had to give the boy credit: he didn't even flinch.

"Captain wants you on deck, sir," the boy said promptly the faintest edge of a Spanish accent to his voice.

"It ain't even dawn!" Porthos grunted irritably. "Can't it wait?"

The boy shook his head. "No sir. An island's been spotted. I think he wants you to lead a landing party."

Porthos groaned and dragged himself the rest of the way up. "Don't you know it's bad luck to wake a man when he's sleepin'?" he asked crossly. To his surprise, the boy just grinned.

"Least I didn't yell. Aramis said that'd be a good way to get a dagger in my gullet," the boy said cheerfully, vanishing before Porthos could ask when he'd had a chance to ask Aramis how best to wake him up.

He shook his head at the door, clambering out of bed and pulling on his boots before winding his bandanna back around his head. Gavillier better not have woken him for nothing.

He all but crawled up to the deck, feeling ridiculously tired. It probably had something to do with the two bottles of grog Gavillier had pressed upon him the previous evening as a peace offering. Perhaps drinking both in one go had been a poorly thought out idea.

The deck was already bustling with activity despite the sun only just peeking over the horizon. Gavillier was standing near the bow, calling orders to his mates, who seemed to be outfitting the two rowboats with empty crates and barrels.

There must really be an island, then.

Porthos looked around as he made his way towards the bow and saw a steadily approaching mass off the starboard side. It looked like a sizeable island, but until they got closer it would be difficult to tell. Still, it could mean fresh supplies, or at the very least fresh water. They would have to check it out.

Someone slammed into his side and he reached out in time to keep D'Artagnan from sprawling headfirst across the deck. "There's an island!" he cried excitedly.

"Stop pointing out the obvious," Athos drawled from behind him, grabbing the back of his shier and dragging him off Porthos. "I believe the captain's looking for you." He waved a hand toward the bow. "I'm off to collect Aramis."

Porthos nodded and turned back to the heaving mass of bodies that was the overcrowded deck, shoving his way through like a battering ram.

"Ah, Porthos!" Gavillier called when he spotted him, shoving through the crew that was darting across the deck. "Glad you're here. I want you to take some men and lead a foraging party to that island there. We could use the supplies, eh?"

Porthos glanced at the approaching island thoughtfully. It might be nice to get off the ship. Still…

"Who were you thinkin' of sendin'?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

"Oh, a few of the men with foraging experience," Gavillier said, gesturing towards some crew members loosening the ties of the nearest boat. "The cook, naturally, and your friend Athos, as he's the quartermaster."

"I want all my men," Porthos said bluntly. He and Gavillier might have patched up their disagreement for now, but he wasn't a fool. He could feel the tension still simmering below the surface, and he wasn't leaving any of his friends on board without him.

For a moment, Gavillier's expression flickered, but then he smiled and nodded. "Of course. It might be good for them, being landlubbers and all, to get some solid ground beneath their feet for a time."

He laughed, and Porthos allowed himself to grin. "I almost wish I could go with you, just to watch them stagger about thinking the ground is moving," Gavillier added, and this time Porthos laughed with him.

"It'll be a sight," he chuckled, picturing Aramis's face when they made land at last.

Gavillier clapped a hand to his back, steering him back towards the cabins. "Before you go, could you run in and take a look at the charts I left on my desk? I could use a second opinion on our course."

When Porthos hesitated, he added, "I will inform your companions of the expedition. Fret not: the boat won't leave without you."

Porthos chuckled despite himself and pushed his way to the cabin. The charts were complicated, but Gavillier had taught him quite a bit more about navigation since he'd been on the ship, and it only took twenty minutes or so to double check that all the calculations were in order.

Satisfied, he hurried back to his own cabin to retrieve his weapons and hat before heading back up to the deck, searching for the others.

Gavillier waved him over, and he noticed a boat already heading for the island, which they'd anchored not far from. "Thought they weren't going to leave without me," he joked.

Gavillier shrugged, smiling. "You were taking too long. I sent the first boat ahead to find a good spot to land. You can follow in the second with the rest of the men."

"And my men?" he asked pointedly, scanning the deck. He couldn't see Aramis, Athos, or D'Artagnan anywhere.

"The lad was getting impatient, so I sent them on the first boat," Gavillier informed him, leading the way toward the second. "Honestly, that boy has more energy than can possibly be good for him."

"True enough," Porthos chortled, a tiny bit disappointed that Aramis hadn't waited for him. But he was probably eager to get to land. He narrowed his eyes, but the boat was too far away to pick out Aramis's distinctive hat.

"What's our window, 'ere?" he asked, swinging himself into the boat.

Gavillier passed him a compass. "You have until dark. Search everywhere for supplies. It would be good for morale to have some fresh food for a change. I don't want to see you back any time before noon."

Porthos nodded, accepting the instrument, and motioned for the men to begin lowering the boat. Gavillier gave him an easy smile as he slowly dropped towards the water, his eyes glinting oddly in the light of the rising sun.

The boat hit the water, and he gave the command for the oars to be run out. Within moments they were heading for the island, beckoning like a paradise after a month at sea, but for some reason, Porthos felt a chill in his bones. He just wanted to get to that island and check on the others, especially Aramis, because he couldn't shake the image of Gavillier's smile.

He had looked almost triumphant.

Chapter Text

Aramis watched the island with the hungry gaze of a man too long at sea. It was little more than a spit of rock dotted with palm trees and one visible beach, but it was solid ground and the chance of fresh food and water.

What he wouldn't give to be on it.

A door opening behind him had him turning away from the small porthole and the far off island. Belén stood in the doorway, face flushed.

"What are you still doing down here?" he blurted out, looking confused.

Aramis frowned questioningly at him. "The captain wanted me to check the weapons room." A surprisingly easy assignment after what had happened yesterday, but Aramis was certainly not going to complain.

"Are you almost done?" Belén asked, shifting impatiently. "You ought to be on deck."

"I'll go up when I finish," Aramis shrugged. He was in no hurry to return to the hot sun.

"But-" Belén began before cutting himself off. "Alright. I'll help you, and it'll be done in half the time."

Aramis stared at him, nonplussed, as Belén began rapidly checking every musket he could get his hands on. "Slow down," he muttered in Spanish, allowing amused affection to color his tone. "What's the rush?"

Belén cast him a strange look but didn't reply, continuing his mad examination. Aramis shrugged and picked up his own pace accordingly. He was almost three quarters finished when Belén dropped his musket and darted over to the window.

"Mierda!" he swore, and Aramis chuckled at the proof that the boy had picked up Spanish swears faster than anything else.

"¿Qué es eso?" he asked, laying the weapon down and moving to stand beside him. "Are those boats?"

In the water between the ship and the island were two longboats. One was almost to the rocky shore, while the other was less than halfway.

"Yes." The boy sounded crushed, as if something had gone badly wrong. "And we should have been on them."

"What?" Aramis asked, peering past him to look more closely at the boats. "Why?"

"Captain sent your friends to the island," Belén said miserably. "He told Porthos that he was going to send you all, but I knew you weren't on the first boat, and I was supposed to be on the second, so I thought if we finished in time we could both go, but they've left without us."

"The captain sent all my friends?" Aramis asked softly, a sense of foreboding settling in his stomach. "You're sure?"

Belén nodded. "I took the message to Porthos myself. Sauvagne told me someone else would come tell you! I'm sorry, Aramis." The boy's face was the picture of dejection.

Despite the anxious feeling beginning to bubble in his stomach, Aramis smiled. "It's hardly your fault. I'm sure there's just been a miscommunication."

"Maybe," Belén muttered, but he sounded as worried as Aramis felt. "Perhaps we should go talk to the captain?"

"No!" Aramis's exclamation was a bit more forceful than intended, and Belén looked around in surprise.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to go on more calmly, "I will go speak to him. Perhaps there is a reason he wished me to stay. Why don't you stay down here and finish up? It's cooler than it is on deck."

For a moment, Belén eyed him suspiciously. Then his face cleared and he nodded. "Alright. But don't be too long. I want to know everything's okay."

Aramis found it almost impossible to nod in the face of such sincere concern, but he managed it. He had to get away, and fast, before Belén worked out that all was not as it seemed.

He might not be able to protect himself, but he could still protect the boy.

Aramis strode into the hallway, wondering if it was worth stopping by Porthos's cabin to fetch his weapons. But there didn't seem to be much point. He knew what was coming.

It was clever of Gavillier, really, to orchestrate such a perfect plan. He'd managed to get Porthos out of the way without him being any the wiser. Aramis might have admired his intelligence, had it not been directed against himself.

Part of him wondered if he should have remained below decks, tried to delay the inevitable, but his pride would not allow it.

No, he knew what was coming, and he could not stop it. But he would meet it with his head held high, not cowering like a frightened child. He was a Musketeer, and if this was to be his death, he would die like one.

He tried to ignore the voice in the back of his head that whispered about things worse than death. He could do nothing more to change his fate.

He made it to the hatch that led up to the main deck and paused, taking deep breaths to loosen the knot in his stomach. One by one, he buried his thoughts of Belén, of D'Artagnan, of Athos, and finally of Porthos. If he allowed himself to think of them, of what this would do to them, he would lose all the courage he'd mustered.

The last thought he locked away was a memory of Porthos's smile, brighter than the sun. He lifted his head high and climbed the ladder, pushing open the hatch to step out on deck.

It was as if they'd been waiting for him. A little less than half the crew appeared to have remained on the ship, and among them Aramis couldn't see a single friendly face. Not the men that had taught D'Artagnan to tie off the sails, not the old man with whom he'd shared an orange, not even the boys who'd been so awed to meet Porthos. Even the bosun, Roland, was gone.

Instead he saw Sauvagne, Ebert, all the men who had tormented him after the disaster with the albatross, and he understood.

Those that remained were Gavillier's men through and through, and their captain stood at their head, a dark smile gracing his features.

"How good of you to join us, Aramis," he called lazily, and Aramis strode toward him, head held high against the stares of the crew. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw respect flicker in a few faces.

"I wasn't aware I had been invited to this gathering," he drawled, doing his best imitation of Athos's cool tone.

Gavillier's grin widened. "You are the guest of honor, Musketeer."

A ripple passed through the crew at the use of his title, and he understood this was just one more tactic to turn them against him. But he would not be intimidated.

"Why, I suppose I ought to thank you, then," he said evenly, refusing to break eye contact. "There aren't many who appreciate those in my line of work."

He thought he heard a soft laugh in the crowd, hurriedly cut off. Gavillier's smile was now that of a shark circling its prey in the water, waiting for the right moment to strike.

"You have been a burden since you first set foot on my ship, Musketeer," he said smoothly, stalking forward. Aramis stepped minutely with him to keep him in his sights.

"Well, it's quite hard, you know, doing all the work you can't be bothered to," Aramis replied, feigning boredom. This time he definitely heard muted laughter. Some in the crowd were not entirely against him.

"Is that so?" Gavillier purred, an almost lecherous edge to his words now. "I was under the impression you were simply lazy."

"I believe you may be confusing me with someone else, sir. Namely, yourself."

He could see the exact moment Gavillier's composed mask slipped to reveal the brute underneath. He braced himself for the blow a moment before it landed, but it still hit with enough force to crack his head to one side, leaving his ears ringing.

Gavillier's smile was too smug, and in that moment it didn't matter anymore what was a good idea and what was likely to get him killed. He would probably be killed anyway. He lashed out, fist connecting with Gavillier's nose. There was a satisfying crack and then the captain was staggering away, nose bent at the wrong angle.

"I've waited ages to do that," Aramis said carelessly into the stunned silence.
Gavillier's eyes met his, blood dripping down his face. "You will pay for that, Musketeer, and all your other transgressions."

Aramis didn't have time to turn and face the fresh attack. In a heartbeat his arms were twisted painfully behind him, rough rope winding about his wrists. Once his hands were bound, something slammed hard against the back of his legs, dropping him to his knees.

He squared his shoulders as best he could, glaring up defiantly. The hour of death, and all that.

Gavillier strode forward, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look up. When he tore his head free, Sauvagne stepped forward and fisted thick fingers in his hair, holding him in place.

Gavillier drew out a small piece of parchment with a flourish. "You see this?" he asked, voice slick with cruel excitement. "This is a list of all of your transgressions. Your protector-" Gavillier's mouth curved up at the word, "-wished you to be left unmolested, but your failings simply cannot go unpunished. What sort of message would that send the crew?"

Aramis felt understanding sweep through him in a sickening wave. This was worse. He would have preferred death.

Gavillier ran a finger dramatically down the list. "If you add together every instance where a duty was left unfinished or completed too slowly coupled with your serious lack of respect to figures in authority and your open insubordination against Mr. Chatainné, our respectable third mate-" the hands on his shoulders tightened cruelly and Aramis knew the man must be just behind him, "-then we have a serious list indeed."

"In fact," Gavillier went on, a vicious smile spreading across his features. "I do believe you've earned up to fifty lashes, Musketeer."

Time screeched to a halt for a moment as his brain simply failed to process what he was hearing. Then his mind became a chorus of no, no, no, as he struggled fiercely against the hands hauling him towards the mast.

But there were too many, far too many, and he was on his own this time, and then the mast was before him, the iron chains gleaming darkly in the light, and he felt his stomach roll when they cut the ropes from his wrists and closed those shackles around them instead.

He dug his feet into the ground and yanked desperately, heedless of the bite of the iron against his skin, but a blow from behind sent him reeling against the mast. He saw a thick, muscular arm reach up and grab the pin securing the shackles to the mast, pulling them free, and then to his horror his arms were dragged further up and secured to a secondary fastening, his feet only just touching the ground.

Gavillier stepped up beside him, twisting his head cruelly to the side to meet his eye. "How's that?" he asked, feigned concern in his voice, though the pounding of Aramis's heart almost drowned out his words. "Comfortable?"

Aramis spat in his face.

Gavillier stepped back, smirking. "For that, I think I'll let you bake for a little while," he said, glancing up at the burning sun. Aramis could already feel the heat sinking into the exposed skin of his forearms.

"What are you doing?" came a shocked voice from behind them, and Aramis wrenched around, craning his neck to see Belén standing midway between Gavillier and the assembled crew, terrified anger blazing on his face.

"Nothing that concerns you, boy," Gavillier sneered, dismissing him as a threat instantly.

Aramis prayed Belén would walk away, would understand that there was nothing to be done. He knew if the boy pushed it, he would be killed.

"You can't do this, it isn't right!" Belén shouted at Gavillier's back. "How can you stand by and watch this?" he demanded of the crew, and Aramis twisted far enough to see the discomfort on some of the faces.

"Silence!" Gavillier roared, spinning around to backhand Belén viciously across the face. The boy staggered away and dropped to his knees, and Aramis sent prayers in every language he knew that he would just stay down.

But he didn't.

He rose to his feet, a pistol from the armory in his hand, and pointed it directly at Gavillier. "I won't let you," he said, his voice fierce despite the faint tremor. "This is wrong."

"Don't," Aramis ground out, ignoring the burn in his shoulders as he managed at last to twist his body almost fully around. Belén had the pistol leveled at Gavillier's chest, and from the steadiness of his hand, Aramis knew he would not miss.

But he could see what Belén could not. He didn't even have time to cry a warning before Sauvagne's knife plunged into the lad's back. The pistol dropped from his hand with a wet gasp as Belén dropped heavily to his knees. Sauvagne left the knife where it was lodged and kicked the boy carelessly aside.

"We're wasting time," Sauvagne said, stepping over Belén's still form. "Stop playing about."

Gavillier shook his head at him remonstratively. "You have no sense of the dramatic, my friend," he said conversationally. "But have it your way. We shall begin."

The third mate stepped forward, a sick grin on his brutish face. A thick whip was coiled in his hands.

The last thing Aramis saw before he was spun around and slammed against the mast once more was Belén's hand move.

The boy was alive.

Then a knife was slicing through his shirt, sending the remains to the deck, and the heaving crowd fell suddenly silent.

Porthos watched the island draw nearer, fighting off the uneasy feeling that kept surging through him. There was no cause for concern, no reason for the knot forming in the pit of his stomach, but he still couldn't quite shake the sense of foreboding.

He just had to get to the island. Once he saw for himself that there was nothing to worry about, he'd feel better.

They were almost to the shore, so he gave the order to row double time, eager to make land. He could see the other longboat had been pulled ashore further down the rocky beach, just too far to clearly make out the figures unloading it.

After what felt like an age, the hull of the longboat scraped against the sand, and Porthos jumped out with the others to haul it up the beach, beyond the reach of the pounding surf.

"Not much here," said a gruff voice at his elbow, and he glanced over to see the old man with an eye patch who'd once teased D'Artagnan at breakfast. "Doubt we'll find anything."

"Makes you wonder why the captain sent us," another man asked boldly, meeting Porthos's gaze. The small longboat crew glanced at him to see if he would take offense at the near treason, but he inclined his head enough to tell them they need not worry.

He would not rat anyone out for being dissatisfied with Gavillier's leadership. Not when he harbored doubts of his own.

"Let's meet up with the other crew," he ordered. "Leave the casks in the boat for now. No point in unloading 'em if we may not need 'em."

The men nodded, some going so far as to crack smiles at the considerate order. It was too hot to force them to haul empty casks and barrels across this godforsaken rock without being sure they'd find something to fill them with.

It didn't take them long to reach the first boat, but the rocks that littered the beach kept it out of sight until they were all but upon it. To Porthos's annoyance, it looked like the men were preparing to head out.

"Oi, what's going on 'ere?" he called to Roland, Gavillier's second mate.

Roland glanced at him in mild surprise. "The captain told me to lead a party out as soon as we landed," he informed him. "We would've been off before you got here, but one of the lads twisted an ankle on the rocks, and I thought it best to patch him up first."

"Captain didn't say anything to me about splittin' up," Porthos frowned, looking over the assembled men. He saw Athos and D'Artagnan surveying his group, but no sign of Aramis. "Just a minute."

Roland nodded, accepting the order, and Porthos made his way over to join his brothers. "Where's Aramis?"

Athos's eyes shot to his, widening fractionally, but it was D'Artagnan who answered. "We thought he was with you?"

"Gavillier said he was on your boat!" Porthos's voice rose as the knot in his stomach tightened. This wasn't happening, it couldn't be happening, not again.

"He wasn't," Athos said quietly. He met Porthos's eyes, and he saw his concern reflected in them. "Something is wrong."

Athos's words were like a spark, igniting the worry in his chest into an inferno. "We gotta get back," he croaked.

"We're going back to the ship," he shouted, pushing his way over to Roland. Athos and D'Artagnan took up positions at his side as the mate turned around to stare at them "Don't try an' stop us." He let his hand drop to the hilt of his sword for emphasis.
Roland gazed at him impassively for a long moment, his eyes settling on each of them in turn before darting to the empty place where Aramis should be. Something like understanding flashed across his face. "If you do this, he will take it as a challenge. Are you willing to face him?"

Porthos met the calculating gaze with a determined scowl. "Yes."

Roland's lips quirked up into something like a smile. "Then I request permission to join you."

"I… you- what?" Porthos asked, stumbling over his words in surprise.

Athos stepped forward, narrowing his eyes. "Why?"

Roland turned to him. "Because our captain, as I'm sure you have noticed, is a despicable excuse for a human being and a terrible leader, and if there's any chance of toppling him and that brute Sauvagne, I want in."

"Hear, hear!" a few voices called, and then the old man with the eye patch stepped forward.

"Aye," he said, quietly, looking around at the assembled privateers. "The cap'n is a bad one, and no mistake. I dunno what he's up to on that ship, but it ain't good, and I'm tired o' livin' in fear. We're with ye, laddie."

Athos opened his mouth, probably to give some short, formal speech expressing their gratitude, but Porthos pushed past him, heading towards the boats. "We're wasting time," he growled, vaulting over the side. "We can talk later. I'm going back, now. Any who want to come, get in."

It turned out every man on the shore wanted to come, so Porthos ordered half to head back to the second boat with Roland and follow them, gritting his teeth at every interruption that kept him from getting back to the ship.

The trip back was tense. Men swapped out their positions at the oars every few minutes so they could load pistols, check blades, and prepare for what was bidding fair to be a bloodbath.

As they neared the ship, Porthos ordered them to stow all weapons, worried they would be seen and fired upon if any aboard guessed their purpose. But they weren't hailed as they approached, and that sent worry drumming deeper through his skull until his head pounded like a drum.

If no one was watching the sea, what were they watching?

The boat bumped the side of the ship at last, and he held up a hand for silence. He could hear something happening above them, and as he began to climb quietly, he made out Gavillier's voice over the waves breaking against the ship's hull.

"Well, well, well, I didn't expect that, Musketeer. Get into some trouble with the law, did we? I didn't expect such markings on a man who claims to serve the King."

Porthos lunged for the next handhold as the implication began to sink into his brain, but the rope netting along this part of the hull was slimy with seaweed and salt water, and he had to move carefully.

"You may have a pretty face, but the rest of you isn't very pretty at all, is it?" Gavillier's voice had taken on a disgustingly lecherous tone, and Porthos's fingers tightened on the rope, picturing Gavillier's neck beneath his fingers.

"Not like that young pup you brought with you. He is… delectable." A faint noise just below him had him glancing down to see D'Artagnan looking ill and Athos white with fury.

"But I suppose we'll have to make do, eh, boys? Once we're finished here, I believe we can all have some fun."

Porthos's roar of rage caught in his throat as the fury he'd barely been holding back exploded into a conflagration that would surely consume everything in its path.

He hit the railing far ahead of the others and crouched there for a moment, the red haze in front of his eyes making it hard to process what was happening.

Aramis was chained facing the mast, his shirt in ribbons around his feet.

Gavillier stood beside Sauvagne a few steps behind him, the smile on his face fanning the raging fire in Porthos's blood ever hotter.

All around them, the crew stood silently, staring at the scars crisscrossing Aramis's back, thrown into stark relief by the bright sun. They covered almost every inch of skin, rising in ropey ridges.

The memory of how those scars had been inflicted froze him where he stood, rage burning so hot it felt almost cold within him. For a moment, the Black Fox stood in Gavillier's place, the same cruel smile stretched across his features.

Then red lines bloomed across Aramis's skin, and Porthos heard, as if from far away, the crack of a whip.

Chapter Text

The pain blossoming across his back was his nightmares brought to life. The crack of the whip was dragging him backwards into the past he'd tried so hard to push from his mind. And it was worse, so much worse than it had been before, because at least that whip had only one length of leather, only one to cut into him and tear him to pieces.

This one had nine, and the third mate had broken the skin with the very first blow, slashing him to ribbons all over again.

But even so, the pain paled in comparison to his desperate rage. He had to get free, he had to get to Belén, because maybe it was not yet too late to save him.

He sensed the lull in his very bones, knew from experience that the third mate was drawing his arm back in preparation, knew precisely when the next blow would fall.

He heard the crack and tensed for the blow.

It didn't come.

And then he was twisting, barely able to keep his feet, ignoring the burn in his shoulders and wrists and the fire across his back because that had not been the crack of a whip. That was a gunshot.

The whip hit the planks first, the nine lengths of leather coiling like a snake as it landed. A second later, the body of the third mate followed. A hole had been blown through the man's chest, a perfect shot through the heart.

And behind him, perched on the railing with consummate balance and an expression so dark Aramis was amazed it did not freeze men where they stood, was Porthos, pistol still clutched in his outstretched hand.

He was staring at Aramis, and the disgust in his eyes cut deeper than the whip.

"Porthos," Gavillier murmured, and the words sounded like a caress.

Porthos's whole body shuddered as he tossed the gun aside, gaze fixing on Gavillier like a tiger stalking its prey.

"My friend, be reasonable-" Gavillier began, backing away ever so slightly.

The sound that emerged from Porthos's mouth was nothing less than a snarl of pure rage. A knife was in his hand faster than Aramis could blink and flying towards Gavillier's head, but the coward ducked behind a nearby crew member.

Time seemed to speed up as men burst over the sides of the ships, swords drawn and guns blazing. Aramis saw Athos and D'Artagnan cutting their way towards him, Porthos charging at Sauvagne as Gavillier slipped into the crowd, and everywhere men clashing with the ringing of steel. Half the men on the ship turned on their companions and fought with their returning brothers.

Gavillier was outnumbered.

He could see Belén curled into a ball on planks already red with blood, the knife still protruding obscenely from his back, and the old man with one eye slicing through an opponent mere feet from him.

And then the man was beside him, blood dripping from his sword as he tossed it to the deck. In a moment he was half hanging from the mast, above him, one hand pulling on the bolt holding Aramis's shackles to the mast.

His feet his the ground, hard, the impact knocking him to his knees. He tried to scramble upright, but his legs refused to cooperate, the strain and exhaustion of the past few days coupling with the heat to drain the strength from his already overtaxed body.

The old man dropped down beside him, a knife in his hands. "Hold still," he muttered gruffly, bending over to slide the dagger's point into the lock on the shackles.

"Thank you," Aramis said, his voice hoarse. The man glanced up when the lock on the first manacle clicked free, a half smile on his face. A shadow loomed behind him.

Aramis didn't even have time to call a warning. The man collapsed sideways on the deck, his smile not quite faded from his face, as Ebert yanked a dagger free from his back.

"Coward!" Aramis cried, surging forward with the shackles still dangling from his left hand. Ebert leaped back, but a cruel smirk flickered into place when he noticed Aramis had no weapon.

It fell away when Aramis simply bashed the iron shackle against the man's head with all his might, leaving him a crumpled form on the deck.

The old man was already dead, so Aramis picked up his sword and shoved his way through the fray to where Belén lay curled, praying he was not too late. He couldn't see any sign of Porthos, Athos, or D'Artagnan, and he hoped they were uninjured, because he could not go looking for them now.

He had a responsibility, first.

Belén moaned faintly when he laid a hand on his shoulder, rolling him gently onto his back. Frightened green eyes caught and held his own.

"Aramis." Belén's voice was small and young, and Aramis felt it punch through him like a bullet. "Am I going to die?"

"No, you're not," he said fiercely, catching the boy's hand in his own. "You'll be fine."

He prayed God would forgive him for lying.

"Oh," Belén murmured softly, relaxing. "That's good. I was worried when it stopped hurting."

Aramis couldn't bring himself to look at the wound, at the dagger he did not dare withdraw. He didn't need to. He could tell from the dark red blood still pooling across the planks that there would be no recovering, no healing this. He was too late.

"Sorry I couldn't stop them," Belén whispered, and Aramis felt something like a sob catch in his throat. Forcing a smile onto his face felt like swallowing broken glass.

"You need not apologize, valiente," he whispered, biting back another sob when the boy smiled at the word.

"Brave one," he repeated, a faraway look in his eye. "You think I'm brave?"

"You are the bravest man I have ever met," Aramis told him, feeling the grip on his hand beginning to weaken.

"Liar," Belén said, chuckling weakly, but the smile remained. "You are a good friend."

Aramis tightened his grip, as if he could hold the boy's soul in place by strength alone.

"Gracias por enseñarme a hablar español," Belén whispered, each word perfect. "Hasta siempre, Aramis." Green eyes smiled at him once more, and emptied.

"No!" The word clawed its way out of his throat as he slammed his fist against the deck, relishing the pain. He glanced around, vision hazy with fury and guilt, so much guilt. He rose unsteadily to his feet. He needed to fight, to lose himself in combat before he lost himself to grief.

He cut down the first three men who came at him with his borrowed sword. They thought him easy prey.

They never had time to learn their mistake.

A gap opened before him, and through it he could see Porthos still dueling Sauvagne, on the verge of gaining the upper hand. Gavillier was creeping towards him from behind, sword already rising for the killing blow.

A coward's attack.

Like the one that had killed Belén.

Aramis moved forward silently, rage turning his blood to ice and sending the world into crystal clarity.

He saw himself as if outside his own body. He caught Gavillier's sword with his own, twisting the man away from Porthos's unprotected back. A cruel smile twisted the captain's face, and his mouth moved as if he spoke, but Aramis's ears were filled with ringing, and he did not hear.

He stopped talking when Aramis nearly skewered him with his first attack, wariness replacing malice in his eyes. He flicked his blade up, parrying Aramis's next blow, and dodged to the side to avoid his third.

The deck was shifting beneath him, slick with seawater and blood, but Aramis ignored it, his entire being focused on this one moment, the glint of sunlight off his rapier and the way Gavillier's muscles betrayed his moves before he made them.

He lashed in and laid flesh open to the bone, cutting deep into Gavillier's left arm. The captain howled and jerked back, seeking escape, but Aramis followed.

This ended here.

The coward tried to hide behind the seething mass of men still struggling across the deck, but Aramis pursued him relentlessly, cutting down any enemies who sought to protect him. They clashed again over a cannon, and this time Aramis's sword found Gavillier's leg.

He fled, limping, towards Sauvagne, but at that moment the burly first mate fell to the deck with Porthos's blade through his heart.

Gavillier spun back to him and attacked with a ferocity born of desperation, battering him with his massive strength until Aramis's arm simply could not take the strain and the sword was dashed from his fingers.

The captain turned away, a triumphant look on his face, and Aramis knew he would call to Porthos, try to barter his own life with Aramis's.

He was not a pawn to be bartered with.

When Gavillier turned back, he stepped forward, pulling out the dagger he'd taken from Belén's corpse.

He did not need Porthos to save him.

With all his might, he drove the dagger's point into the soft skin beneath Gavillier's jaw and straight up through his head.

He could save himself.

"Aramis?" Porthos said, his voice very quiet as he stepped over Sauvagne's body. Aramis did not even glance at him. The dagger was still lodged in Gavillier's skull, the body held up by Aramis's strength alone, already devoid of life.

All around them the crew had fallen silent, the fighting screeching to a halt in the face of this new development. Men that had been backing Gavillier shifted uneasily, lost without the captain or his brutal first mate to follow.

Porthos sheathed his sword as he approached, waving Roland back when he tried to step forward, gesturing for him to relieve the few remaining enemies of their weapons. "Aramis?" he tried again, but still he received no response as Aramis continued to stare at the corpse with cool detachment. His stomach clenched in fear.

And then Athos was beside him, bloody sword still in his hand. "Aramis," he called, and his voice was heavy with command. "Stop this at once."

Aramis obeyed at once, pulling the dagger free from Gavillier's jaw with a sickening sucking sound. The body collapsed to the deck like a broken puppet.

"Thank you," Athos said quietly, stepping closer, Porthos trailing uncertainly on his heels. "Are you well?"

Aramis's eyes flashed to Athos's, calm and emotionless. "I am perfectly fine."

"You're bleeding," D'Artagnan pointed out, appearing behind him. The boy's face paled as he took in, for the first time, the damage across Aramis's back, new wounds crossing old scars, and the shocked look had not faded when Aramis glanced back at him.

Instantly his face hardened, chin raised proudly as he glanced around at the surrounding crew, only half of whom were listening to Roland. The others were openly staring at Aramis's scars.

Porthos wanted to step in front of him, shield him from their too interested eyes. Sickness still churned in his stomach, making him feel ill as memories of how those scars had been inflicted assailed his mind. Aramis hated them, no matter how many times Porthos told him they made him no less handsome, and the blatant stares would make him feel worse, tear away the confidence he had at last been beginning to recover.

He thought of what Gavillier had said about Aramis being less attractive than D'Artagnan and had to cut off that line of thought instantly, less the red haze creeping over his vision had him viciously kicking Gavillier's corpse. He didn't want to think about what might have happened if they had not returned.

"Hold this," Athos ordered suddenly, and a moment later his jacket was shoved unceremoniously into Porthos's arms, wet with blood and salt water. Then he yanked his shirt free from his breeches and drew it over his head, passing it to Aramis with an unusually understanding expression before shrugging his jacket back on.

Aramis's lips twisted up into something that could almost be called a smile as he pulled the garment over his head, his movements stiff with pain. It snagged on the manacle still attached to his left wrist, and Porthos stepped forward.

"I can get that off," he murmured, taking the dagger from Aramis's unresisting fingers. The look Aramis gave him wasn't even cold: it was empty, emptier than he'd ever seen. He had to look away almost at once, chest tightening as confusion warred with concern. He wanted to take him in his arms and give comfort, but even without the audience making that impossible, he sensed Aramis would not welcome such a move.

Porthos didn't know where he stood right now. His world was shifting worse than a ship in a storm. He didn't know what to do.

He settled for digging the point of the dagger into the lock until he heard a small click. The shackles fell to the deck with a final sort of clunk, revealing a ring of darkening bruises around Aramis's wrists, shadowing the older scars.

"Aramis," he murmured, reaching helplessly for him, but Aramis shifted his arm away and drew the sleeves of Athos's shirt down over his wrists. He could see blood on Aramis's hands, too much to be only Gavillier's.

A cough from behind interrupted him before he could say anything more. He turned to see Roland waiting expectantly. Every man on the ship was staring at them.

"What?" he asked gruffly, wondering if the second mate was going to turn on him after all.

Roland raised an eyebrow as if sensing his suspicions, linking his arms behind his back in a way that was pointedly non-threatening. "I believe everyone is waiting to see what will be done now."

"What do you mean?" Athos asked sharply, stepping forward.

Roland glanced at him. "The captain is dead," he said bluntly, inclining his head at the corpse lying by Porthos's feet. "But there must be a captain. We are waiting to see who it will be."

"Well, who can it be?" D'Artagnan asked, not stepping away from Aramis's side, who was watching the proceedings disinterestedly.

Roland's gaze flicked to Porthos and then away, looking behind him. "By our rules, the man who kills the captain may take his place."

Aramis laughed, a bitter, jagged sound. "Oh, that is rich," he muttered, a mocking smile marring his features when Porthos turned his head to look at him. "What a captain I would make."

Several members amid Porthos's side of the crew shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Aramis as if they were afraid of him having that kind of power over them, but Porthos's couldn't understand why that would be.

"I take it you do not wish to claim the position, then?" Roland asked, his tone businesslike. "It is your right, if you wish it."

Aramis's smile vanished like smoke in a breeze. "No. I do not want it," he half snarled, looking away.

Roland nodded. "Then the captaincy falls to you, if you wish it," he said firmly, looking at Porthos once more.

Porthos stared at him, uncomprehending. "Me? But you're the only officer left alive. It oughta be you."

Roland smiled slightly. "If you do not wish to take the position, there will be a vote, in which case, yes, I shall put my name forward. But as I currently lack the ability to make the necessary calculations to read our navigational charts, I'll make a poor show of it. The captain was grooming you for the position since the voyage began. I believe you are the only one qualified."

Porthos opened his mouth to tell him he was wrong, that Gavillier hadn't been grooming him for anything, been too busy lying to his face and manipulating him to have had time for that, but he paused. Gavillier had shown him better ways to chart a course, taught him to account for currents and wind direction and weather patterns.

He remembered Gavillier asking him to join his crew, the fantasy he'd spun of ruling an armada together. God above, he'd been training him from the very beginning. This had always been his plan.

Porthos took several deep breaths, trying to control the rage burning through him as he realized that Gavillier had always intended to try and get him away from Aramis. When the fire boiling in his blood reached manageable levels once more, he looked up.

Roland was watching him, waiting for an answer, and he could feel his brothers watching as well. Athos met his eyes and nodded once, and Porthos understood. He didn't want to be captain to these men, not when half of them had stood by and watched Gavillier torture Aramis, but the best way to keep them all safe was to take that power for himself.

He could not allow anything like this to ever happen again.

Porthos met Roland's eye and nodded. "Then I accept."

Roland's face broke into a true smile as he stepped forward and shook his hand. "Good. Wasn't looking forward to whipping this lot into shape, to be honest."

Porthos fought the urge to wince at the phrasing. "Nor am I. I want anyone who was fightin' for Gavillier locked in the brig until we know who we can trust and what exactly 'appened."

"Aye, Captain," Roland said grimly turning away to bark orders to the crew that had fought with them. He waited a moment to see that everything was going smoothly before turning, intent on finally checking Aramis's injuries now that everything was settled. But Aramis was already pushing past him, D'Artagnan hurrying after him.

"Wait," Porthos said, reaching out to grab Aramis's arm and hold him still, but Aramis yanked his hand away and ignored him, disappearing into the crew milling about waiting for Roland's orders.

Before Porthos could follow, a young crew member with a cut above his eye appeared at his elbow. "Captain, Roland wants to know what you'd like to do with the bodies."

Porthos glanced down at Gavillier's corpse. "We'll have some kind o' ceremony tonight," he told him. "Sew the bodies in sailcloth. But this one, Sauvagne, and that blasted third mate don't get one, you hear me? Toss 'em over the side and leave 'em for the sharks."

The boy's eyes widened but he nodded obediently, trotting off to deliver his orders to Roland.

"I don't want t' hear it," he snapped when Athos stepped to his side. "They don't deserve a sea burial."

"I agree," Athos said, his voice hard. "Let them rot. But I thought you'd like to know Aramis is over there," he added more gently, gesturing across the deck. Aramis was kneeling beside a body, the emptiness in his eyes replaced by grief. D'Artagnan was crouched across from him, looking ashamed.

Porthos pushed his way and saw the young man who'd roused him that morning. Without a word, Athos knelt beside Aramis and reached out a hand to close the boy's empty green eyes.

"Who was he?" Athos asked softly, his shoulder brushing Aramis's. Porthos noted bitterly that Athos's offer of comfort was not rejected.

"A friend." Aramis's voice was almost impossible to hear over the bustle of the crew. "He tried to save me. Sauvagne stabbed him, and I was too late to save him. He wasn't even old enough to grow a beard."

That explained the amount of blood on Aramis's hands, the empty look in his eyes, the way his voice was breaking with pain. Porthos stared at the dead boy whose name he didn't even know, and wished he was alive so he could thank him for what he had tried to do.

"We should go help with the clean-up," Athos said after a moment, glancing pointedly at D'Artagnan, who nodded and rose. Athos pressed a hand to Aramis's shoulder before he left, and D'Artagnan did the same, casting an odd glare at Porthos as he walked away.

"Aramis," Porthos murmured when they had gone, reaching out tentatively for his shoulder, but Aramis was already rising, not quite meeting his eye.

"I should find someone to take care of his body, and the old man who freed me as well," Aramis muttered. "And you should go and do your captainly duties. I'm sure the men could use your leadership."

Porthos recognized the dismissal, hurt sweeping through him at the indifferent tone of Aramis's voice. "Not until someone looks at your injuries," he said stubbornly, swallowing the hurt for the time being.

Aramis said nothing, but Porthos chose to take the silence as agreement. Turning away, he scanned the crowd for Athos. "Wait here," he said, turning to glance at Aramis, but he had vanished from the deck.

Porthos spun in a circle, searching for him, but he had disappeared. Cursing, he pushed through the crew, heading for where he'd last seen Athos.

Athos glanced up at him when he approached, a question in his blue eyes. "I need you to go find Aramis. I can't leave the deck now, not with things like this," he growled. "But he's gotta let someone look after 'im."

Athos's eyes narrowed the slightest bit, concern glinting in their depths, but he nodded. "Of course."

Athos turned away, heading for the hatch that led below decks. Porthos watched him go, hoping he found Aramis quickly. He'd follow as soon as he could get away. He had to find Aramis and fix whatever this was before it got out of hand.

If it wasn't already too late.

Chapter Text

Porthos tugged on the sleeves of his leather jacket as the bodies were lined up against the railing. It felt wrong to be wearing it after so long, and the foreignness of the weight of the leather was like a slap to the face. This was his uniform, the one thing in his life he had always been proud of, and wearing it felt wrong.

He glanced across the assembled crew, noting Athos and D'Artagnan both dressed in full uniform, minus their shoulder guards, but he could still catch no glimpse of Aramis.

"We're ready to begin," said Roland's quiet voice at his shoulder, and he nodded sharply. If Aramis did not wish to attend, he couldn't force him to, no matter how worried he might be about him.

Porthos stepped up the railing, nodding at the chosen crew members to lift the first body. Sea burials were not the fancy ceremonies of the land: they were swift and often silent affairs. But even so…

"Shouldn't someone say a few words?" Roland asked, looking at him almost reproachfully. He'd been informed that Ebert had been the ship's chaplain, so the duty of blessing the dead fell on him.

He glanced down the railing and saw the men holding the body uncertainly, watching him, and he could tell from the size that it must be the body of the boy that Aramis had befriended. Words failed him as guilt washed through him once more.

"Rest eternal grant to them, Lord," Aramis's voice cut through his whirling emotions like the sharp edge of a knife, and suddenly he was standing there at the railing, Athos and D'Artagnan flanking him. "And let light perpetual shine upon them."

He was wearing his leather jacket, hat held loosely by his side, but even from this distance Porthos could see the blood still on his hands. Hadn't Athos treated his injuries?

The men watched him respectfully, bowing their heads as he continued, voice carrying over the wind and waves, "May their souls, and the souls of all the departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace."

He stared at the body wrapped in the sailcloth, and the grief on his face was almost too much to bear.

"Navegar bien en los mares, Belén. En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo," he said softly, making the sign of the cross. "Amen."

The men let the body slip over the rail. A faint splash, and the boy was gone.

Aramis stared after the corpse as if frozen, rousing only when Athos lad a gentle hand on his arm. Shaking him off, he turned and walked through the crowded deck, men parting before him as he made his way to the hatch.

Porthos clenched his hands around the railing, fighting the urge to run after him. He was the captain now. He had to see the funeral through to the end, no matter what his every instinct told him.

The remaining bodies were committed to the sea without further ceremony, Aramis's words impossible to follow. With each splash the guilt in Porthos's heart grew heavier, until he felt he must break beneath the pressure, until at last the final body fell away and the men dispersed.

Feeling as if he were in a daze, he made his way to the hatch, wandering through the ship searching for Aramis. He located him at last in the now vacant doctor's quarters. There had been too many men wounded, so they were being treated in the mess hall instead. Aramis must have come here because it was deserted.

What he found wasn't reassuring. Aramis was staring blankly at the wall, his coat discarded on the ground. Athos's shirt was hanging from his shoulders, and even in the darkness Porthos could make out the faint bloodstains at the back, proof that Aramis's wounds had not been tended to. More blood coated his hands.

The same hands that had comforted a dying boy drowning in his own blood.

The same hands that had driven a dagger through Gavillier's jaw with cold detachment.

"Porthos," Aramis responded quietly, but there was no welcome in his tone. Nor was there any coldness, there was just…nothing.

Porthos frowned, reaching out a hand towards Aramis's shoulder, but his lover shifted subtly, pulling away yet again. He let his hand fall uselessly back to his side as Aramis dragged his empty gaze from the wall at last.

"Someone should look at your injuries," he said carefully, striving to choose a safe subject as he moved to light some candles, casting the room into faint light. From the way Aramis's eyes snapped up to meet his with a cold fury, he had failed, but he pressed on regardless. "Why didn't Athos take care of it?"

"I'm fine," Aramis said, his tone hard as steel. "Athos was unable to find me."

"What?" Porthos asked, confused. "Why not?"

"I did not wish to be found." Aramis shrugged as if it mattered little, and Porthos had to swallow back a blaze of anger at the thought that Aramis had been wandering the ship for hours, bleeding and hurt.

"Your injuries need to be seen to," he insisted, and Aramis bowed his head with a twisted smile that looked more like a grimace, an almost mocking light in his eyes.

"Have it your way. You usually do."

Porthos bit his tongue to keep from responding. He could tell Aramis was trying to draw him into a fight, and he couldn't let that happen, not like this. Not when his fury at Gavillier and at himself was almost burning out of his control.

To his relief, there was a bucket of water sitting in the corner that looked clean, so he carried it over. He was reaching out to gently shove Aramis towards the table when he remembered himself, drawing his hand back and gesturing at it instead.

Aramis leaned against it but did not sit, watching Porthos with his dark eyes narrowed strangely. "Let me see your hands," he ordered, and Aramis extended his arms, failing to hide a wince.

Porthos grabbed a cloth and dipped it in the water, carefully wiping away the dried blood. As it cleared, he noticed the small crescent shaped cuts on Aramis's palms, already scabbed over. Fingernail marks. Aramis's fists had been clenched tightly enough that he'd cut into his own skin.

Porthos reached out a finger to touch the injuries and Aramis jerked away, scowling at him. "I can see to my own injuries. There's no need for you to stay."

"How're you plannin' to patch up wounds you can't even see?"

Aramis glared at him, eyes cold. "I can find someone to take care of them later."

And that hurt, the blatant insinuation that Aramis did not want Porthos to care for him, but he could not let it show. He had to be the calm one, because if he lost control, he might lose everything.

"You should've had these looked at hours ago," Porthos, said striving to keep his own voice even. "You can't just wander about injured, Aramis."

Aramis's smile was a twisted, bitter thing. "Why ever not? It's what I've been doing for these last few weeks, after all."

The guilt that burned in Porthos's chest flared dangerously, bordering on rage. He swallowed the fury, unwilling to be drawn into a fight right now.

"Yeah, but I didn't know about that."

"There seems to be a great deal you don't know about," Aramis said finally, an unreadable expression on his face. It might have been disappointment.

A sick feeling swept through his stomach. "Aramis? How long has this been going on?"

Aramis's bitter smile answered him even before he spoke. "Long enough."

And now there was rage, impossible fury that this had gone on before his eyes and he had never noticed. "Why didn't you say anything?" he cried, failing to temper the anger in his voice. That Aramis had kept this from him felt like a betrayal.

"Would you have listened?"

Porthos frowned at the unfairness of that statement, but before he could say anything, Aramis spoke again. "Did you know his name?"

The question caught him off guard. "Who?"

Aramis's eyes bored into his. "The boy. He died to save me. You were at his funeral. Don't you think it's odd you don't even know his name?"

Beneath his rage, Porthos could sense the trap, but he didn't know how to avoid it. "Well, I didn't see much of the crew beyond the officers."

Aramis smiled sadly, but there was a cold edge to it. "Exactly. You knew nothing of what went on beyond what he told you. I bet you believed every word he said, didn't you? He was oh so convincing, and you? You weren't interested, not really. You ignored Belén… and me."

Porthos opened his mouth to deny it, but Aramis pressed on relentlessly. "Is this the life that you wanted, where people like Belén get neglected and I get beaten up every day just for loving you? Because none would dare touch the mighty Porthos the Pirate, but his whore was fair game! For God's sake, Athos has to hide in his lair getting drunk every day just so he doesn't have to see what's happening! D'Artagnan is the only one that ever bothered to pay attention, to ask if I was alright."

His mouth twisted into a bitter line. "Wouldn't you like to see my new scars?"

Aramis drew the borrowed shirt up in one smooth motion, stiffness vanishing in the face of fury. Sure enough, there was a thin red line etched across his chest, and another low on his stomach, surrounded by bruised skin as if they'd been made by booted feet. More dark bruises peppered his skin. Nausea rolled through Porthos's stomach at the sight. He'd seen the wounds on deck, but he'd assumed they'd been inflicted during the fight.

The truth made his head spin with fury.

"You should've told me!" He knew he was shouting now, but he couldn't control it, guilt and shame fanning the flames of his anger into an inferno.

"And started a mutiny that would claim dozens of lives?" Aramis yelled back, eyes blazing as he let the shirt fall to cover his injuries once more. "That was not something I wanted on my conscience! Forgive me if I find the needless loss of life distasteful."

Porthos clenched his fists at the reminder of the day of the capture of La Doncella, when Aramis had accused him of acting callously towards the Spanish.

"Damn the consequences, Aramis! I deserved to know!"

"And what would you have done if I told you?" Aramis hissed, whirling to stalk away so that Porthos could at last see his back once more, revealing the bloody lines that had soaked through the linen, shallow cuts crisscrossing old scars beneath the thin fabric. "You didn't listen when I warned you that the captain was not pleased to be hosting Musketeers! You listened to your old friend instead of me! You were so caught up reliving the glory days that you paid no attention to what was going on around you."

He stilled suddenly, shoulders shaking with rage. "It was Calais all over again."

Fury burned through Porthos at that, because it was meant to hurt him, and it succeeded. He felt it land as if it was a physical blow, and his temper demanded he respond.

"Maybe there's another reason you didn't tell me!" he shouted, too far past the point of control to think this through. "Maybe you didn't like that I was too busy to fawn over you, and you liked the attention."

Aramis recoiled bodily, spinning back to face him, but something within Porthos had snapped, and he pressed on ruthlessly. "After all, Gavillier was a handsome man, wasn't he? Big, handsome, strapping in a take charge sort of way. Just your type." The last was spat venomously.

Having had his say, Porthos stood glaring defiantly, panting from the outburst. Only then did he notice that all the blood had drained from Aramis's face.

"Get out." Aramis's voice was barely a whisper, but it was so full of fury that it was far worse than a shout.

A sense of misgiving tempered his rage for a moment, and he took a half step forward, but Aramis's eyes snapped to meet his and the betrayal in them forced him backwards again. "Get out!" This time it was an order, and Porthos obeyed, the door slamming shut behind him as he stormed through the halls towards his own cabin.

He found Athos in the hallway and had to clench his fist to keep from yelling at him as well. It wasn't Athos's fault Aramis had hidden himself away earlier, but he could damn well handle it now.

He stalked past him, shouting back to the older Musketeer, "He's in the surgeon's cabin. You deal with him. I'm done!"

Athos yelled something after him, an edge of fury in his tone, but Porthos didn't stay to listen. Reaching his cabin, he burst through the door and threw it shut behind him.

He stood in the center of the dark room, rage and guilt and hatred churning through him. With a bellow, he flipped his desk on edge, scattering papers across the floor. Then he whirled and slammed his fist into the wall with a resounding crack, relishing the pain in his knuckles as a distraction.

Where the hell were they supposed to go from here?

Athos threw the door open with a crash, past caring about propriety or the fact that the sun had yet to rise. "What the hell did you do?"

Porthos looked up from the bed, and Athos noted without surprise that he clearly hadn't slept. Some small, vindictive part of him was pleased about that on Aramis's behalf. He hadn't wanted to take sides, but after a night spent sitting beside him, offering the comfort of his presence when he knew he should not be the one doing so, knew he was not enough to keep the nightmares at bay, he was inclined to back Aramis in this terrible situation.

"What?" Porthos asked, looking surprised, as if he hadn't expected an attack to come from this direction.

"What did you do?" Athos repeated, lowering his voice dangerously. D'Artagnan had once admitted it terrified them all when he did that, and he would use that to his advantage today.

"I didn't do anything," Porthos muttered sullenly, quailing slightly under Athos's coldest glare.

"You left him in that room with his injuries still open and bleeding and so pale I was worried he would pass out at my feet. It was almost a quarter hour before he said a word to me, so clearly whatever you did or said was beyond acceptable. What did you do?"

Porthos rose to his feet, a defiant glint in his eyes. "What business is it of yours?" he asked callously. "Leave it."

"What business is it of mine?" Athos asked, forgetting to be cold in the face of incredulity. "Aramis is my brother, as are you, and whatever happens between you cannot help but affect me. Tell me what happened."

Porthos's glare did not budge an inch. "No."

Athos stalked forward until they were only inches apart. "Whatever you said has affected him so deeply that he's refusing to eat. He did not even sleep tonight, or at least he hadn't when I left a moment ago. Whatever else is going on, I am certain that is not what you wish."

He felt a flicker of relief when Porthos looked away, something like guilt softening the hard planes of his face for a moment.

"He shoulda told me what was going on," he muttered at last, turning away. "He shouldn'ta kept it from me."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "If I am not mistaken, he had his reasons. And I fail to see how it is fair that you blame him for not coming forward, when it was your responsibility to ensure that he and all of us were being watched over."

"How was that my job?" Porthos asked angrily, whirling around, but Athos did not back down. "Is that why D'Artagnan keeps glaring at me? How can you blame me for this?"

"This is your world, Porthos, and you alone were in a position of power. You were meant to look afterus all, especially Aramis, because we did not know this world, and you left us to flounder."

Porthos was staring at him, an expression of dawning horror on his face, but Athos pressed on relentlessly. This was the first time since the first day of their voyage that he had been sober, because now, at last, he could do something, even if all he could do was make Porthos see how badly he had been led astray.

"Your old friend came along and you just settled into that world too easily. You forgot about us, Porthos, even if you didn't see it."

Porthos shifted uneasily, but the anger was still raging on his face. "I ain't a leader, Athos. You knew that goin' in. So did Aramis. He shoulda said something. Anything. Not just let that bastard treat him like shit."

And there was guilt at last, and something else: jealousy, a faint note of it in Porthos's voice when he referenced Gavillier, and Athos froze, making the connection.

He wouldn't ask outright, aware that Porthos would simply deny it and become defensive, but he knew whatever had been said to cause this rift was so much worse than Porthos knew.

And he needed to know.

"What could he tell you?" he asked, carefully choosing his next words. "That Gavillier was using the abuse to try and coerce him into a terrible situation? I heard what he said on deck as clearly as you, Porthos. Or did you think that was the first instance he had tried to use him?"

For a moment, Porthos stared at him, uncomprehending. Then the blood drained from his face, but not the anger. It darkened into something deadly, a sharp edge of wrath, and Athos knew nothing was resolved.

Porthos opened his mouth to speak, but Athos cut him off, not yet finished. "Aramis knew how you would react if he told you, and so he did not. The signs were there, Porthos. You simply failed to see them, because Aramis knew you better than you know him."

"Then you shoulda said!" Porthos cried, storming forward. Athos met his glare steadily, understanding that this anger was not directed at him, nor even at Aramis. In killing Gavillier, Aramis had robbed Porthos of his chance to protect him and find closure in their enemy's death, and it would take more than his words or even Aramis's suffering to dull the edge of Porthos's rage.

Only time would do that.

Athos turned away, pausing briefly at the door to look back. Porthos glared after him, all defiant rage and misplaced guilt.

"Think about who you are truly angry with, mon ami," he murmured loud enough for Porthos to hear as he shut the door behind him.

He prayed, for all of their sakes, that Porthos figured it out soon.

"Where's Aramis?" D'Artagnan asked as he wandered into the captain's cabin after breakfast, looking around to check that his friend wasn't anywhere in the spacious room. He hadn't seen much of the older Musketeer since the mutiny the day before, even though he'd checked the crew quarters for him.

He hadn't seen Athos, either, come to think of it, but since he'd slept in the crew quarters, he supposed that wasn't surprising. He'd assumed that Aramis would be with Porthos, but there was no sign of him.

Porthos glanced up, an unreadable expression on his face. "I think he's with Athos."

"You're not sure?" D'Artagnan asked, frowning. It seemed unlike Porthos to allow Aramis out of his sight after such a close call without even knowing where he was. Was that where Athos had been yesterday afternoon?

"Why should I be? He can handle himself."

D'Artagnan caught the edge to his words. "Is everything okay?"

"He's not interested in speakin' to me right now, alright? And I don't want to talk to 'im." The words were punctuated by a glare warning him not to ask any more questions. "Now I'm busy, and unless you're here to help, I'd appreciate being left alone."

D'Artagnan nodded and left hurriedly, not wanting to provoke Porthos any further. He made his way below decks to Athos's cabin and found him sitting with Aramis, drinking.

He plopped down beside Athos and held out a hand hopefully. Athos raised an eyebrow, but Aramis sighed after a moment and passed his bottle over.

"Thanks," D'Artagnan grinned, taking a long swig. Aramis gave him a small smile before turning his attention back to Athos.

"I should be going anyway. Things to do," he said quietly. Athos inclined his head as Aramis clambered to his feet, still moving stiffly from his injuries. He vanished down the hall without a word.

"What's that all about?" D'Artagnan asked, looking to Athos for clarification. "I just spoke to Porthos, and he seemed angry, and now Aramis doesn't want company? What's going on?"

Athos gave him a hard stare for a minute, as if deciding something. At last he sighed.

"Our friends are having something of a rough patch," he admitted.

"They're fighting?" D'Artagnan stared at the door Aramis had vanished through. "But they never fight!"

"Everyone fights," Athos said simply.

"But… why? I mean, what are they fighting about?"

Athos sighed, taking another sip of wine. "Porthos is angry with Aramis for not telling him of the abuses he had been enduring. He feels like Aramis did not trust him to help. Aramis thinks that his actions were justified since telling Porthos would have incited mutiny."

"Which, you realize, it did," D'Artagnan pointed out.

Athos gave him a withering look. "Obviously. Aramis is also upset with Porthos for being unconcerned with the deaths of the boy and the old man, among…other things. Apparently they were kind to him, and he finds it intolerable that Porthos never bothered to learn their names."

"Nor did we," D'Artagnan said softly, and Athos looked up sharply before nodding.

"Nor did we."

"How do you know all this?" D'Artagnan asked after a moment of silence.

Athos leaned his head against the wall, sighing. "Because I've spoken to both about it. At some length. Porthos is angry, Aramis is hurt, and I'm trapped in the middle. Be grateful they don't burden you with their troubles."

D'Artagnan shuddered at the thought of trying to navigate that relationship. He was glad Athos was considered the wise one, though he knew Athos's moaning was only a front. He would never turn away one of their friends if they needed him.

"Love is hard," he sighed at last, taking another swig of wine. A wave of longing to see Constance again swept through him.

"I'll drink to that," Athos said, eyes glimmering with amusement as if he guessed where D'Artagnan's mind had gone.

"They'll work it out though, right?" he asked, a tendril of worry wrapping around his chest at the thought of his two friends being unable to reconcile their disagreement.

Athos's mouth twitched up into a faint smile. "Of course they will. One of them just has to stop being so stubborn for long enough to see things from both sides. And I do believe Porthos owes the first apology. In fact, he owes several."

"Ah. So it could be a while, then."

Athos nodded, a wry smile playing about his lips. "It could indeed, though hopefully they'll work it out sooner rather than later. My wine stores can't take the strain."

"Aren't they more likely to take more wine if they make up?" D'Artagnan pointed out, hiding a grin.

Athos shot him a despairing look and thunked his head against the wall.

D'Artagnan smiled at the older Musketeer's antics, but something within him whispered that Athos's composure was all for show, and that he was far more worried that he was letting on. So D'Artagnan smiled and teased and followed his lead, trying to ignore the fear firmly lodging itself in his heart.

Porthos and Aramis would work it out, whatever it was.

They had to.

Chapter Text

Porthos didn't know what he was doing in the hallway. He had no reason to be there, not when the thought of knocking on the door made anger start bubbling in his stomach again.

But here he was, poised to knock on Aramis's door.

He yanked his hand back, pacing across the hall. He should leave; he knew he should, so what the fuck was he doing here? It made no sense.

But he hadn't been able to quash the lingering worry all day, not when he hadn't seen Aramis at all the day before, and it had only grown worse when darkness fell. So here he was, lurking outside his door at midnight.

Porthos turned back to the door, glaring at it like it was his mortal enemy. He'd already paced by three times since dinner, and hadn't heard a sound from within. He guessed that Athos or D'Artagnan had probably spent part of the day down here, as he hadn't seen either since D'Artagnan had wandered in that morning.

Not that he really begrudged Aramis the company, for all that he was still furious. He knew Aramis had to be alright, that their brothers would have looked after him, but something within him wasn't going to let him sleep until he saw for himself. He'd been too angry to check all day, but now his lapse was weighing heavily on his conscience.

He had to be sure.

He blew out his breath in a heavy sigh and stalked to the door, easing it open. A quick peek and he'd be gone. He just needed-

Porthos froze when a soft sound came from the darkened cabin. There was no way Aramis was awake, not after all that had happened. He peered carefully into the darkness, ready to turn tail if he saw movement, but nothing happened.

He pushed the door the rest of the way open, letting the faint light of the lantern in the hall illuminate the small room. He could make out a dark shape curled up on the actual bed in the back of the surgeon's cabin.

Porthos had just stepped closer when the sound came again. It was a slight shifting accompanied by a hissed exhalation. His chest tightened and he was beside the bed before he could process what he was doing.

Aramis was curled in on himself atop the blankets, hands fisted in the coarse material. His face was pinched and his lips moved wordlessly. He shifted again, pressing his head against the pillow while his forehead creased as if in pain.

Nightmares.

Rage boiled in Porthos's stomach again, but it wasn't directed at Aramis this time. He wished Gavillier was still alive, wished Aramis hadn't killed him so quickly, so he could have the pleasure of doing it himself.

Aramis shifted again, his breathing hitching ever so slightly. Unconsciously, Porthos bent and brushed a hand across his forehead, pushing the dark curls out of his eyes.

He yanked his hand back as soon as he realized what he'd done, praying Aramis wouldn't wake, but Aramis merely sighed and settled against the blanket, some of the tension easing from his body.

Tentatively, Porthos reached out and stroked his hair again, the tight feeling in his chest loosening slightly when Aramis relaxed further. He should've realized, should've known Aramis wouldn't sleep easily after all that had happened. Guilt and shame flooded him, and he lowered himself to crouch beside the bed, gently tangling one hand in Aramis's hair.

Porthos was still angry with him, furious even, but he loved him too damn much to leave him to face that darkness alone.

He stayed like that until Aramis was breathing easily, his body loose with sleep and his hands unclenched from the blanket. He considered draping the blanket over Aramis's sleeping form, but he didn't see how he could get it out without waking the other man.

But at least Aramis was sleeping soundly now. That was something.

He disentangled his hand carefully from Aramis's hair and rose, padding silently to the door. He glanced back once more to make sure all was well before slipping out.

As he made his way back towards the captain's cabin, he thought he heard a door shut down the hall, but when he looked he saw nothing.

He fell onto his own bed, utterly spent. If Aramis didn't apologize tomorrow, he'd have to go back the next night, and the night after, until things were back to normal.

If things ever went back to normal.

He spent the next day busying himself about the ship, inspecting the supplies and crawling about in the rigging all day. He ate alone in his cabin for every meal, unwilling to risk running into Aramis and starting the fight anew. He saw Athos once or twice, and earned several glares from D'Artagnan as the younger man scurried about the deck performing various duties.

He also worked on training Roland, so that if anything happened to him the ship would still have a captain.

During the day, his anger rose to the fore, pounding through him viciously. Why hadn't Aramis told him what was going on? He still couldn't get past the feeling that Aramis hadn't trusted him, and every time he thought of it he vowed not to go back tonight after all.

It had seemed to be working, and yet here he was outside the door with no clear memory of deciding to come here.

Blowing out a frustrated sigh, he shrugged and snuck quietly though the surgeon's cabin to Aramis's private quarters at the back, easing the door open silently.

He knew he was later than the night before when he heard Aramis's labored breathing. He hurried over and found him already in the grip of a nightmare, his face drawn and pale even in the faint light from the hallway.

The anger he'd been nursing all day drained out of him as he knelt beside the bed, smoothing a hand gently across Aramis's cheek. He let his palm rest against Aramis's neck and ran a thumb along his jaw, slipping his other hand into Aramis's dark hair.

"Hey, shhh," he soothed, keeping his voice very low. "It's alright, I got you." After a few minutes of this, Aramis settled, the tension easing out of his body as he relaxed in proper sleep. Porthos grinned and rose to his feet, noting that Aramis had kicked his blanket off his body and was lying half atop it.

He knew it would look suspicious, but the night was cold, so he carefully pulled the coarse fabric from beneath Aramis and draped it over him once more, chuckling to himself when Aramis snuggled into it at once like a cat.

He touched Aramis's face gently with his fingers once more before he left. As he walked, he tried to summon his anger again, remind himself why he couldn't stay, but the rage was a mere flicker of what it had been, and for all his attempts he couldn't rid himself of the desire to creep back in and stay the night.

When at last he slept, he dreamt of Aramis.

The next day he threw himself into his business on the ship, tying up the loose ends that had been left by the change in captaincy. It was dark by the time he sent the men away. He'd been on the verge of leaving his cabin for Aramis's despite the early hour when Roland had shown up. In the absence of an assigned first mate, he'd taken over the duties.

Roland wanted to discuss an issue of crew morale with him, a problem that could turn mutinous if not addressed. It took hours to sort it out, and by the time Porthos got out of his cabin, the third bell had long rung.

He wasn't sure why he rushed to Aramis's cabin, but something subconscious prompted him to a sense of urgency, burning off the fires of anger he'd barely managed to keep stoked all day. He all but threw the door open, remembering at the last moment to keep it from slamming.

A cry froze him in his tracks.

Aramis was shaking so much he could see it from the doorway, his breath coming in harsh pants peppered by cries that made Porthos's blood turn to ice in his veins.

Shit.

Aramis hadn't had a nightmare this bad since he'd first been injured and trapped in fever-induced dreams. He'd never gotten sucked in this deep since Porthos had been with him.

But you weren't with him, were you?

Another cry had him darting across the small space, frantic hands running through Aramis's hair, across his chest, but he was too far gone. Porthos couldn't even wake him up.

He could see the problem now that he was closer. Aramis had fallen asleep on his back instead of his side, putting pressure on the healing wounds. That must be what triggered the nightmare.

"Déjame en paz. No me toque," Aramis snarled, the words rough with pain. Porthos couldn't understand the Spanish, but the tone was enough to tell him that it was a furious objection.

"Shhh," he murmured helplessly, but nothing seemed to be working.

Aramis groaned, his hands so tightly fisted Porthos worried he would cut himself again. He pulled futilely, but he couldn't pry open Aramis's fingers without hurting him more.

Another flurry of words in slurred Spanish slipped past Aramis's lips, too quickly to make out anything other than the hostility in his tone, and the fear. He paused, trying to listen, and heard his own name gasped out desperately.

It was funny, the things that could break you.

The word hit him like a tidal wave, drowning the last of his reservations like water over flame. He clambered onto the bed, drawing Aramis's tense, shaking form into the protective circle of his arms until he was pressed against his chest

Aramis's forehead felt clammy as he tucked his head beneath his chin, murmuring gentle words as he held the other man as close as possible. "Hey, it's alright, I'm here, love, it's okay."

He didn't know how long it took for Aramis to stop shaking and relax against him. He lost track of what he said, soft reassurances whispered into Aramis's hair while his hands traced patterns across his skin. It was no less than Aramis had done for him, those nights when he couldn't help but remember that dank basement, how close it had come.

When Aramis at last sighed and settled against his chest, his breathing even once more, Porthos let his eyes slip closed, a wave of relief crashing through him. Aramis nuzzled blindly against his neck, and in that moment he knew he wasn't angry anymore.

Aramis stiffened again, body tensing against him, and he stroked blindly at his hair, trying to soothe him even as a fresh wave of anger crashed through him.

This time, it was directed at himself.

Porthos recalled Athos's words in his cabin a few nights before and pulled his hand from Aramis's hair before it curled into a fist. Gavillier had tried to use him. Athos was right: he knew exactly what that bastard had planned if they hadn't returned in time.

He took a deep, rattling breath as he let the pain of that realization break over him at last, his grip on Aramis tightening unconsciously. He hadn't wanted to face it, but with his anger bleeding away, he had no choice.

His grip tightened again when he remembered what he had said to Aramis, loosening only when Aramis shifted slightly in his sleep, a soft noise of protest escaping him.

You liked the attention.

He felt sick at the memory of the words. The man had threatened to rape Aramis, and he'd accused Aramis of being attracted to him?

He wouldn't blame Aramis if he never forgave him.

Oh god, what if he really didn't forgive him?

The thought was like a blast of cold water, jerking him out of the exhausted doze he'd been slipping into. He couldn't fall asleep here, not when Aramis might wake up and be angry at him for sneaking in. He needed to apologize, felt the pressure of it like a physical force, but he knew if he did so too soon, and Aramis wasn't ready to forgive his yet, he'd just end up retaliating despite himself and nothing would be fixed.

He needed to get out.

Gingerly, Porthos tried to peel Aramis off his chest, but his lover was like a leech, clinging more tightly every time he moved until they were inextricably intertwined. When Aramis's hands closed around the lapels of his shirt, he gave up.

Fuck it. If Aramis was still angry when he woke up, he would just have to grovel. On his knees if necessary. He certainly ought to anyway.

But that could wait until morning. He dropped his hands back to wrap around Aramis's waist once more, holding him securely against his chest. Aramis was a warm weight against him, his breath tickling Porthos's neck, pinning him completely to the bed.

God, he had missed this.

The first thing Aramis was aware of when he woke up was that he was ridiculously warm and comfortable. Even the residual ache in his back and shoulders had faded. He wanted to burrow into the warmth and sleep for the rest of the day.

The second thing he was aware of was that the warmth was doing its level best to slide out from beneath him, and he wasn't having any of that.

"Stop moving," he growled, tightening his grip.

Then suddenly he found himself flung to the side and flat on his back, blinking up at the ceiling.

He pushed himself upright with a scowl. "Running away?"

Porthos froze by the door, turning very slowly to look at him with such a comically guilty expression that Aramis couldn't help but grin internally, though he managed to keep his mock scowl.

"Really, I didn't think you the type to sneak into a person's bed at night and flee without so much as a farewell," he said sternly, and Porthos's guilty expression faded to puzzlement.

"Are you- you're laughin' at me!" he said accusingly, and Aramis lost the battle with seriousness and cracked a grin, brittle but real.

"You make it too easy, mon cher," he said lightly, enjoying the way Porthos brightened at the endearment.

"You bastard," Porthos growled, stepping away from the door at last. "Don't mess with me like that."

Aramis grinned cheekily, the expression feeling odd on his face after so long. "I was perfectly comfortable, and you tossed me out in the cold," he scolded. "I'm entitled to a bit of revenge."

For dramatic effect he shivered in the chill morning air, glancing around for the blanket only to find it crumpled on the floor by Porthos's feet. "You even stole my blanket!"

Porthos scooped it up, offering it sheepishly, but Aramis shook his head. "It's cold now," he said crossly. Then he allowed himself a genuine smile as he eyed Porthos pointedly. "But you aren't."

It was an invitation, and Porthos took it, grinning as he crossed the chamber and crawled back into the small bed. Aramis gave a satisfied sigh as he curled around him, burrowing against the warmth of Porthos's chest.

"Shoulda come back sooner, huh?" Porthos asked softly. Aramis felt the rumble of his voice against his cheek where it was resting on Porthos's chest. The last embers of his anger were enveloped by Porthos's warmth. He felt freer than he had in weeks.

"You should've stayed the first night you came," Aramis replied, shifting to look up at Porthos when he went suddenly tense. "What?"

"How'd you know about that?" Porthos asked gruffly. "You were asleep."

Aramis flashed him a smug smile. "I know everything, mon cher."

Porthos flicked his nose. "Seriously."

Aramis growled and swiped at Porthos's face in retaliation, but his wrist was caught in a gentle grip. "I didn't have any nightmares," he admitted, allowing Porthos to keep his hold on his wrist. "And I fully expected to." He shrugged, trying not to let on how terrible the prospect of spending night after night trapped in blood-soaked nightmares had been.

Or how grateful he had been that, despite his anger at his lover, Porthos had come back. "Only time I sleep that soundly is with you."

Porthos's face softened into a pleased smile. "You aren't mad about that, then?"

Aramis chuckled. "Do I seem mad?"

To his concern, Porthos's smile faltered. "You'd have every right to be," he said quietly, and Aramis knew they were no longer talking about the fact that he'd snuck in.

Before he could respond, Porthos's arm tightened and he blurted, "I'm sorry. I fucked up. I won't blame you if you're still mad."

"I was. For a while," he told him, bracing an arm across Porthos's chest to rest his chin on. "But that first night…" he trailed off, not sure how much he wanted to tell. How could he describe the way his anger had torn through him at first, and how much of a relief it had been to simply let it go? To admit that it was not Porthos he was truly angry at? "It just started getting less and less every day."

Porthos's dark eyes were full of shame. "The things I said…"

Aramis sighed. "Do you still think those things?" he asked seriously.

"Of course not!" Porthos said, the words heavy with horrified denial.

"Then they are forgotten," Aramis said simply, relishing in the simple relief of forgiveness. Holding onto his anger had been killing him inside.

Porthos stared at him, looking dumbfounded. "It's that easy?"

Aramis gave him a small smile. It was never easy, but it was worth it. "Mon cher, I am tired of being angry. What happened was no one's fault but Gavillier's." Porthos stiffened slightly at the name but did not interrupt. "I don't blame you. Do you blame me?"

"God, no," Porthos croaked, arms tightening around Aramis.

"Then let us put the matter behind us," Aramis said firmly. He could still feel traces of anger within him, flickering like a far off fire, but it wasn't directed at Porthos, and it would fade in time, when the pain of Belén's death was not so fresh. For now, he wanted to let some of that anger go and claim happiness once more.

Porthos chuckled weakly. "You sure?" he asked, worry still lining his face.

Aramis rolled his eyes at the question and pushed himself up on his forearms, glad at least that his shoulders no longer ached so much to keep him from doing this, and pressed a gentle kiss to Porthos's lips.

He laughed when the response was more enthusiastic than gentle. Unsurprisingly, he ended up on his back less than ten seconds later, Porthos's weight pinning him to the bed.

Aramis reached up to wrap his arms around Porthos's neck, fully prepared to abandon their discussion for this, but Porthos pulled back, ignoring Aramis's glare.

"You alright for this?" he rumbled.

Aramis nodded. He could barely feel the healing injuries across his back with all the heat running through him.

To his disappointment, Porthos sat up the rest of the way, drawing him up with him. "I want to see."

"Later," Aramis said evasively, too focused on the way Porthos's hand lingered on his hip.

Porthos scowled. "Now, or we ain't doing this."

Aramis sighed, flopping back dramatically to prove his wholeness, but Porthos merely glared, an affectionate edge to his expression. "Fine," Aramis grumbled, sitting upright once more. He allowed Porthos to carefully remove his shirt, hiding a wince when his shoulders protested.

Warm fingers brushed over the bandages still wrapped around his torso. "You still need these?" Porthos asked worriedly.

Aramis shook his head. "No, it's just so my shirt doesn't catch on any scabs," he said bluntly. "I'm fine. Can we please go back to what we were doing?" He winked suggestively, but Porthos shook his head.

"I want to see," he said stubbornly.

"Fine," Aramis groused, making quick work of the bandages. Porthos knocked his hand aside and finished unwinding them more gently. When they fell away, Aramis sighed and turned so Porthos could see his back.

At least the new scars were fainter than the old, already nothing more than long red scabs across the blemished skin. And most of the bruises had faded.

Porthos let out a long breath, his fingers ghosting over the ridges of scar tissue. "Aramis?"

"Mmm?" Aramis asked, enjoying the sensation of Porthos's fingers tracing along his back. In fact, he might be enjoying it too much.

"The first night- the night I didn't come- were you… okay?" His fingers had frozen, a faint pressure against Aramis's lower back, as if waiting for a response, and Aramis knew his response would determine where things went from here.

"Athos stayed," Aramis told him softly. "He brought wine. And I did not sleep."

Porthos sighed softly, but his fingers resumed their soothing motion. "I shoulda come."

Aramis chuckled softly, arching his back slightly against Porthos's touch. "I would've thrown you out."

"Still." Porthos's voice was heavy with regret. "I'm-"

"If you're about to apologize again, can you not? I'd really like to fuck already," Aramis said, the feather light touches driving him to frustration.

Porthos's startled bark of laughter was a beautiful thing.

"Ah, so that's how it is?" he said teasingly, the heavy tone from moments before replaced with smug satisfaction. "Maybe you oughta learn some patience."

"I'll show you patience," Aramis growled, swiping the discarded bandages to the floor as he spun around and lunged for Porthos, bearing him back down to the bed. Porthos kissed him like he was learning how to breathe again, his arms possessively tight around Aramis's waist.

It felt like coming home.

Chapter Text

Porthos followed Aramis down the hallway, aware that he was grinning like a fool for all the world to see, and equally aware that he didn't give a damn who saw. He felt lighter than he had in days, the crushing weight around his heart lifting a little more every time Aramis smiled at him.

Of course, what they'd done in the bedroom had gone a long way towards lightening his steps as well.

Aramis glanced at him over his shoulder, looking exasperated. "Mon cher, all the food will be gone if we do not move a little faster."

"Rubbish," Porthos said, smirking. "I'm the captain now. They gotta feed me no matter what. Besides," he added, intentionally slowing his pace even further, "I like the view from back 'ere."

Aramis rolled his eyes, but a pleased grin played at the corner of his mouth. "Well, I would very much like to eat, so I think you get to walk in front for a while," he said, stepping around Porthos and shoving firmly at his shoulders. "Move."

Porthos debated being difficult for the fun of it, but thought better of it when he found himself wondering if Aramis had eaten properly over the last few days.

Knowing his lover, the answer was almost certainly no.

The thought had him speeding up slightly, concern tampering playfulness. "Well, there's no need to run," Aramis complained, hands tightening where they rested on his shoulders.

Porthos just chuckled and broke into a jog, laughing when Aramis cursed in Spanish and tried to cut him off.

They hit the entrance to the mess hall at the same time and Porthos had to grab the back of Aramis's shirt and pull him back before he crushed the smaller man against the doorframe.

"That's cheating!" Aramis cried, batting at his arm, but he was still smiling, so Porthos merely laughed and stepped aside to let him through. "Being a gentlemen doesn't make you any less of a cheater," he sniffed as he passed.

"Aramis!" The excited shout echoed across the room, and Porthos glanced around to see D'Artagnan waving excitedly at them from a table in the otherwise deserted hall. His cheerful expression faltered when he caught sight of Porthos, eyes flickering uncertainly between them.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis called back, shoving Porthos toward the table with more force than was strictly necessary.

"Oh, you fight dirty," Porthos growled, twisting to the side so Aramis stumbled past him, propelled by his own momentum.

"Hypocrisy, thy name is Porthos," Aramis muttered, catching himself on a table. "So much for being a gentlemen."

Porthos laughed and slung an arm around his waist as they made it at last to the table. D'Artagnan's eyes had widened comically as he watched them near.

"Is this- are you…?" he asked excitedly as they sat down. Aramis raised an eyebrow and very pointedly leaned against Porthos's shoulder.

D'Artagnan's grin could have rivaled the sun in the sky.

"Finally!" he cried, and the relief was evident in his voice. "I thought you two would never stop fighting. Should I get you some food?"

He bounded off without waiting for an answer.

"Well, he's… eager," Porthos muttered bemusedly.

Aramis laughed. "He was very upset, mon cher. The tension was getting to him."

"Great," Porthos groaned, letting his head drop to Aramis's shoulder. "Now I feel guilty for upsetting the lad."

"Nonsense. He's tougher than he looks," Aramis chided. "Besides, I'm fairly certain he knew what you were up to these last few nights. I can't say for sure, because I never asked, but he's brighter than we give him credit for."

"How could he possibly know?" Porthos growled, put off by the idea that D'Artagnan had been aware of his nighttime activities. "I was being so sneaky. There's no way he knows."

"Know what?" D'Artagnan asked, appearing before them laden with overly full plates. "That you were sneaking into Aramis's room every night?"

Porthos groaned and buried his head in his hands as D'Artagnan divided the plates between the three of them, setting one at the empty space for Athos. "Can no one do anything in secret on this ship?"

"I suppose they could if they did not tramp through the halls like a herd of cattle when they were meant to be sneaking'." Athos materialized behind them, making them all jump. "Really, Porthos, I imagine the whole ship is aware by now. You are the subject of much gossip."

Porthos threw his hands in the air just as Aramis wisely leaned out of reach. "For fuck's sake, if you all knew, why didn't anyone say anything?"

Aramis patted his shoulder. "If they told you, you'd have stopped," he said simply, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.

Porthos scowled but didn't deny it.

"I'm sure everyone will be immensely relieved by these new developments," Athos said neutrally, setting an unopened bottle of wine on the table. "Such tension is not good for a healthy ship environment."

Porthos threw him a dirty look while Aramis and D'Artagnan laughed. "You're all bastards," he growled, but found himself smiling when Aramis slouched against him once more.

"The food's going cold!" D'Artagnan told them, sounding very put out that his hard work fetching warm food was about to go to waste. With muttered apologies, they all tucked in.

Porthos kept an eye on Aramis, making sure he was eating enough, but before long he noticed Athos watching them both with an unusual expression. He looked almost relieved.

And he hadn't even uncorked his wine bottle.

They must have worried him far more than he had let on.

Porthos nudged Aramis's side, nodding subtly towards the full bottle, and Aramis smiled affectionately, understanding at once. Athos had been drinking far too much since they'd boarded the ship, and he remembered Aramis saying he had been drinking so he didn't have to face everything that was happening when he had no power to stop it.

He was glad Athos did not seem to need the wine to cope anymore.

Still…

"If you're not gonna drink that…?" Aramis murmured, reaching across the table.

Athos's hand shot out and claimed the wine bottle before Aramis could reach it. "I may be pleased you worked it out, but I'm not toasting the happy couple," he muttered, though his glare had a fond cast to it.

"Can't blame a man for trying," Aramis sighed, returning to his breakfast.

D'Artagnan laughed and offered him more bread, and the conversation turned to everyday things; the weather, the supplies left aboard, the obedience of the crew. Porthos wrapped one arm around Aramis's waist and sat back, content to just listen and revel in the return to normalcy.

It lasted until D'Artagnan flicked some bread crumbs at Aramis, who retaliated by tossing a spoonful of porridge at him with a makeshift spoon catapult.

Athos sat back, clutching his bottle of wine, and watched the battle unfold until a piece of hard tack hit him in the eye.

Aramis yelped, ducking behind Porthos for protection as Athos straightened, glaring furiously.

Porthos took one look at him and leapt to his feet, shoving Aramis towards the door with D'Artagnan hot on their heels.

"Time to run!" he cried, and they raced from the room, the halls echoing with laughter as they fled Athos's wrath.

Aramis lurked in the shadow of the door, smirking to himself when Athos stalked past without stopping. Perhaps it had been cruel to push D'Artagnan behind them as they fled, but truthfully, the lad had brought it on himself.

"Think 'e's gone?" Porthos murmured into his ear, swaying forward slightly and pressing his chest more closely along Aramis's back.

Aramis chuckled, leaning back as Porthos let his arms drop wrap around his waist. "He seemed content to follow our younger brother."

Porthos shuddered theatrically. "I wouldn't want to be in 'is boots when Athos catches up to 'im."

"Nor I," Aramis smirked peering into the deserted hallway. "Perhaps we should make ourselves scarce?"

"No arguments 'ere," Porthos muttered, following him out. "Head to the captain's cabin, yeah? I could use some help with some things."

Aramis nodded and led the way, pausing every so often to check that their fearless leader had not decided they would make better prey and returned for revenge. They made it to the deck without incident and stepped out into the bright sun.

Within moments they became the focus of every man on deck. Sailors stopped in their tracks to stare with poorly disguised curiosity at Aramis, and he lifted his chin in the face of their interest. He could see several of the men who'd been present with Gavillier that terrible day, staring at him like he were another species. He met their stares with proud defiance. He would not be intimidated, and he would not be ashamed.

Porthos was a different matter, however. An irritated growl had the hands jumping back to their tasks with alacrity, though they still shot furtive looks at him from behind Porthos's back.

It was a relief to step into the cabin and close the door on the prying eyes.

"Sorry about that," Porthos said gruffly, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'll talk to Roland, tell 'em to leave off."

"No," Aramis said, the word coming out more sharply than he'd intended. He took a breath before continuing. "Don't do that. They may not like me right now, but they finally respect me. If you order them not to stare, they'll lose that. I can take it."

Porthos's expression was deeply unhappy as he stared back at him. "I don't want you to have to," he said quietly. "Shouldn't be like this."

Aramis offered him a small smile. "But it is, mon cher. They have more respect for me now than they did before, and a healthy dash of fear, I'd imagine. Once they realize I'm not about to hunt them down for their transgressions things will return to normal."

"Maybe you should," Porthos growled. "I had to let the ones who survived join the crew again to settle things down, but if there's any out there who were part of those things…"

"We cannot have a manhunt through the crew for every hand who ever took their lead from Gavillier," Aramis said firmly. "They will be the more loyal for your mercy, if you show it."

Porthos stared at him intently for a moment, the conflict clear in his eyes, before at last he nodded. "You're right," he said heavily. "Me wantin' to kill 'em doesn't mean it's smart. But if they put one foot outta line…"

"They'll walk the plank?" Aramis suggested, a smile playing about his lips.

Porthos laughed. "Somethin' like that."

"So what did you want my assistance with?" Aramis asked, wandering over to the desk beneath the wide windows.

Porthos followed him, watching as he shuffled through a series of maps and charts. "None o' this stuff. I wanted to ask if, uh, well… if you wanted to be my first mate."

Aramis set the papers down slowly before looking up at him. Porthos was watching him with an endearingly hopeful expression, and Aramis hated to have to say what needed to be said.

"I can't." When Porthos opened his mouth to protest, Aramis held up a hand. "No. Listen. The men will never accept me. I know nothing of sailing or command."

"You could learn,' Porthos insisted stubbornly.

Aramis laughed, pleased despite himself that Porthos was so set on the idea. "Querido, I'd be hopeless. What good is a mate that can't even climb the rigging without you there to ensure I don't fall to the deck?"

"I want someone I trust," Porthos said quietly. "I want you to be safe."

"Porthos, I am perfectly safe now," Aramis pointed out, affection warring with exasperation. "We both know who you should really choose."

Porthos frowned, one eyebrow lifting curiously. "Who then?"

"D'Artagnan, of course. The crew likes him, he understands how the ship works, and he'd leap at the chance."

"He's young" Porthos said, but Aramis could see he was considering the idea.

"So keep Roland as bosun. Between the two of you, you'll make up for the lad's inexperience."

"And what about you?" Porthos asked, stepping closer. "I don't care what you say; I ain't leavin' you to be picked at by that lot again."

Aramis shot him a wry smile. "Will you never think me capable of looking after myself?" He held up a hand when Porthos looked ready to argue. "I'm merely teasing, mon cher. But I believe you have overlooked the obvious. We seem to be in need of a surgeon, no?"

Porthos's face broke into a pleased smile at the reminder. "Oh, right. Well, that's worked out nicely then."

Aramis shook his head affectionately as he wandered to the narrow door set in the left wall. Stepping through, he saw a large bed sat amid a small lavishly appointed sleeping cabin.

"Are these my things?" he asked when Porthos had followed him through. His jacket was in in the surgeon's cabin, but apart from his hat and bandanna, which he was wearing, the rest of his belongings had still been in Porthos's cabin last he checked.

"Yeah. I had 'em brought up. That okay?" Porthos asked, looking suddenly nervous. "I mean, you c'n keep the other cabin if you want it."

"This will do," Aramis said. "But I shall keep the surgeon's cabin, as well."

"What?" Porthos asked, a faint edge of hurt to his voice. "Why? I thought you'd… I mean, I hoped you'd wanna stay 'ere."

Aramis smiled at him. "I do, mon cher," he explained. "But I think it wise to keep a space for myself, as well. Just in case I find myself in need of some privacy."

Porthos still looked worried, shifting uncertainly, so Aramis stepped closer, lowering his voice to murmur, "If you play your cards right, I'll never need to use it."

Porthos's lips quirked into a reluctant grin as his hands found Aramis's waist, but before he could draw him in, the door to the cabin clattered open.
"Traitors!" D'Artagnan yelled from the center of the room. "All for one and one for all, eh?"

Aramis laughed and followed a grumbling Porthos out of the chamber. "My apologies, mon ami," he chuckled as the door opened again. "But it was your throw that woke the beast."

"Whatever did I do to get stuck with the likes of you?" Athos muttered as he entered, casting a baleful glare at Aramis.

"Ah, come off it," Porthos called, grinning. "We make your life interestin'."

"I suppose that's one word for it," Athos said dryly. "Have you come to a decision?"

"Yeah, we did," Porthos said, ignoring Aramis's questioning look. "Oi, whelp." D'Artagnan looked up from where he'd been peering at Gavillier's bookshelves. "Wanna be first mate?"

For a moment the youngest Musketeer simply stared at him, as if his brain couldn't process what his ears were hearing. "What, seriously?" he asked, his tone incredulous as he looked from Porthos to Athos.

"Aye. Congratulations, lad," Porthos said, grinning, but it was only when Athos nodded that a brilliant smile flashed across D'Artagnan's face.

"I get to be first mate? That's fantastic! I outrank you now!" he cried, pointing a finger at Athos and Aramis.

"I do believe quartermaster and ship's surgeon are of a level with first mate, but by all means, continue to think so," Athos said dryly before looking towards Porthos. "Do you have any of Gavillier's logs? I'd like to take a look at them."

"Yeah, just a moment," Porthos said, beginning to rummage through the papers on the desk. "They're in 'ere somewhere."

D'Artagnan, meanwhile, had vanished into the sleeping chamber when it became clear that other matters took precedence over his sudden promotion, but a shout drew Aramis's attention back to him as he emerged, brandishing something victoriously in his hand.

"Look what I found!" he crowed, waving it at Aramis. "Gavillier's hat! Look at it!" He promptly jammed it on his head, looking impossibly smug.

Aramis leaned forward to examine the garment. He had to admit it was rather impressive. It was dark gray, almost black, with a pale gray satin strip and a long white feather. However, the finery was lost when set against D'Artagnan. The boy looked rather ridiculous parading around in a hat more suited to the King's court than a pirate ship.

"I don't care what you say, I'm keeping it," D'Artagnan said pointedly before he could open his mouth.

Aramis chuckled and raised his hands in surrender just as Athos called out sharply.

"Look at this."

They clustered around him as he spread a sheaf of papers across the table. "Correct me if I'm wrong," he said quietly to Porthos. "But as a privateer, Gavillier should have been targeting only the enemies of France, correct?"

"Aye," Porthos muttered, peering over his shoulder. "Otherwise it's piracy. The illegal kind."

Athos nodded and pointed to an entry on one of the pages. "According to the captain's log, La Catin has been raiding French merchants for the better part of three years."

Porthos gave a low whistle. "No wonder 'e didn't like us bein' Musketeers," he said, glancing at Aramis. "We coulda hung 'im for this, in the name o' the king."

His eyes held a silent apology, and Aramis knew he was remembering the warning he'd failed to heed after Gavillier had murdered their prisoner.

"More importantly," Athos went on thoughtfully. "It makes our seizure of the ship legal. By law, we are entitled to hold it until we return to France and the king issues a royal writ granting the ship permission to act as a French privateer."

"That's good news," Aramis chuckled. "I'd hate for our mutiny to have been illegal." Athos shot him a dark glance, but Aramis could see the corner of his mouth twitching up.

"Right, whelp, you got a job to do," Porthos said, clapping a heavy hand to D'Artagnan's shoulder. "Get out there and keep 'em in line. And you," he added, glancing at Athos, "I need an inventory of our supplies. A real one. The wine too."

Athos raised an eyebrow at the order, and for a moment Aramis thought he might refuse. Then he inclined his head and left, D'Artagnan at his heels babbling excitedly about his new responsibilities.

Aramis followed them, wondering if he could recruit some hands to work on renovating the medical cabin. He was hoping to arrange it so that there were more beds and better supplies, or at least cleaner ones. He was so lost in his thoughts he didn't even notice Porthos catching ahold of his shoulder until he was facing his lover once more.

"What is it?" he asked, noting a strange apprehension in Porthos's eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me what was goin' on?" Porthos asked quietly. "Other than the mutiny, I mean. That's not the only reason. Is it?"

Aramis blinked in the face of this unexpected perceptiveness. He thought for a moment about how best to phrase it, grateful that Porthos was asking seriously and not in anger. "When you fought Gavillier, you lost," he explained softly. "I couldn't risk that happening again."

Porthos stared at him. "That's why?" he croaked. "Aramis, I coulda beaten 'im. I lost on purpose!"

"Why would you do that?" Aramis asked, thoroughly confused.

"Because if I won, I'd have had to captain the bloody ship, you idiot!" Porthos was half laughing with exasperation. "I couldn't beat 'im in front of 'is own crew."

"Oh," Aramis muttered, feeling a little foolish. It was so obvious when he thought about it like that.

Porthos grinned at him. "Will you never think me capable of lookin' after myself?" he parroted, smirking when Aramis whacked his arm.

"I wanted to keep you safe," he sighed, remembering the fear he'd felt when Porthos had lost. Suddenly Porthos's arms wrapped around his waist, drawing him close.

"I know, and I love you for it," he said seriously. "But I'm glad it's past now."

"Me too," Aramis agreed with a small smile, tipping his chin up invitingly.

Porthos took the invitation, kissing him soundly. "With the whelp on deck, there's nowhere I gotta be," Porthos told him, dipping his head to trail his lips along Aramis's neck instead.

"Porthos, mon cher," Aramis murmured, desire already pounding through him. "That's the best news I've heard all morning."

Chapter Text

They didn't leave Porthos's cabin until the noon bell rang. Porthos rolled off the bed with a curse and dressed hurriedly, calling something about how he'd forgotten to tell D'Artagnan that Roland would need to be relieved at the helm and that Aramis should come find him there. Aramis chuckled as Porthos hopped out the door, still pulling on one boot.

He stretched languidly against the sheets before getting up. There was a bucket of water next to the door, so he rinsed the grime from his face and hair, enjoying the feeling of being clean again. He re-tied his bandanna before going to fetch his own clothes.

His shirt had seen better days, so he left it on the bed and rummaged through the drawers. Taking Gavillier's clothes made him feel uncomfortable, but they were of a far nicer make than he'd get anywhere else on the ship and they'd fit him a bit better than one of Porthos's spare shirts.

He dressed in a fine linen shirt, pulling on his breeches. He hesitated with his boots but decided to wear them since he would no longer be required to go scrambling about in the rigging. He wound his sash around his waist and buckled his sword belt over it, refusing to travel unarmed again.

Aramis then bent and dug into his bag, looking for the tiny pocket he'd sewn in some time ago. His fingers brushed metal and he stepped back, drawing his gold cross from where he'd hidden it the first evening when Porthos had moved his things to his own cabin. He hadn't wanted to wear the token in sight of the crew.

If he was being honest, he wasn't sure he wanted to wear it now. It was a painful reminder of a night that should never have happened. But he had no other and he found its weight comforting, so he slipped it on and hid it beneath his shirt.

He grabbed his hat and stepped toward the door. He was almost out when he noticed Porthos's belt and sword still lay on the floor. Aramis stooped to pick them up and caught sight of a wrapped bundle laying against the wall.

Curious, he slung Porthos's belt over his shoulder and unwound the cloth. Within, he found Gavillier's weapons. The gold trim on the sword glinted at him. Beside it lay a matching dagger.

He stared at the weapons, wondering why they didn't bother him more. The sword made his stomach twist a bit at the memory of it pressing into Porthos's stomach, but Porthos had said that was an act, and Aramis believed him. Without a madman to wield them, they were just weapons.

Aramis eyed the dagger thoughtfully. Picking it up, he discovered it was perfectly balanced. After a moment's deliberation, he hooked the dagger through his own belt and rewrapped the sword, carrying it with him as he left.

There were more stares as he crossed the deck, but the knowledge that he was clean and rested and well-dressed had gone a long way toward restoring his battered confidence, and he met the stares with his head held high. He also found that a few of the men bowed their heads respectfully at him.

When Aramis made his way at last to the helm, he found Porthos at the wheel, giving orders to D'Artagnan and Roland that they seemed to understand perfectly but that sounded to Aramis like gibberish. Roland gave him a nod when he arrived, and he returned the gesture.

"Took you long enough," Porthos teased when he noticed him.

Aramis gave him a very unimpressed look. "At least I didn't run off without my weapons," he smirked, holding out Porthos's belt.

"Oh," Porthos muttered sheepishly. "Right."

Roland took the wheel while Porthos buckled on the belt, nodding to the bundle in Aramis's hands. "What's that then?"
Aramis flipped the cloth back. "Gavillier's sword. I wondered if you wanted to use it now that you're the captain."

Porthos scowled at it. "I don't want anything of 'is," he growled.

"It's a sword, Porthos, not an extension of the man himself," Aramis said patiently. "He might have been a monster, but he had fine tastes."

"You take it then," Porthos told him.

Aramis shook his head. "I'm not an officer, it wouldn't be right." He glanced at the blade thoughtfully. "We could sell it I suppose."

Porthos reached out, and Aramis passed it over. "I got a better idea," he said. "Pup, take the wheel!" he called. "I need to talk to Roland."

Roland stood aside so D'Artagnan could take his place and strode over. "What is it, sir?" he asked crisply. Aramis smirked at the honorific, noting that it made Porthos look torn between pleasure and discomfort.

"I think you should 'ave this," Porthos said abruptly, shoving the half unwrapped blade at Roland.

The bosun stared at it, thrown. "I couldn't, sir," he said quietly. "It's a captain's blade."

"I've got a sword, mate," Porthos said simply. "Without your support, I doubt the crew woulda followed me. So take it."

"You'll be captain once we head home anyway," Aramis added. When Porthos nodded, Roland's jaw dropped and he allowed Porthos to push the bundle into his unresisting hands.

"I don't know what to say," he said softly. "Thank you, sir." He unwrapped the cloth and removed his own battered sword from his belt, buckling on Gavillier's cutlass in its place. The gold trim glinted in the sunlight.

Porthos nodded, looking satisfied. "There, that's settled and we can all get back to work."

"I was wondering if I might have some men to help me fix up the surgeon's quarters," Aramis said before they could move off.

"Are they damaged?" Roland asked, looking confused.

"No, but they're in terrible condition and the tools all need a thorough cleaning," Aramis explained.

Porthos nodded. "Aramis is surgeon now," he told Roland. "Find 'im a crew. I gotta go see if Athos is done with that inventory."

"How many men do you think you'll need?" Roland asked as Porthos walked off, winking at Aramis over his shoulder.

"Three or four would be enough," Aramis said, making a list in his head of all the things that needed to be done.

Roland nodded thoughtfully. "I'll give you Mercer, Barnet, and Célain," he said. "But I warn you, Barnet might be a bit difficult."

"Then why send him?" Aramis asked, confused.

Roland sighed. "Because there's a lot of men who might be difficult for you to work with, and Barnet carries a lot of sway with the crew. You get him to listen, others will too."

"Convince the leader and the others will follow," Aramis murmured, understanding.

"Exactly. There's some that'll never like you, but most will respect you if you show them you're worth respecting," Roland said seriously. "Shut him up fast and you'll have no further trouble. You can go on down, I'll send them as I find them."

Aramis nodded and made his way down to the surgeon's quarters, reflecting on Roland's words. At the moment, more men of the crew resented him than respected him. Some might even fear him because of his position with Porthos. He had to show them he didn't plan to hide behind Porthos's power as captain.

He was surveying the room when the first man entered. Aramis's stomach swooped when he recognized the man who he'd seen whipped for arriving late to the morning line up.

"Célain," the man said, touching his forehead in a casual salute.

Aramis nodded at him, calming himself with some effort. "Aramis, he replied, offering the man his hand. Respect flashed in Célain's eyes as he took it. There was an understanding there too, and a sort of distant sympathy.

"So, what d'you wan' us to do?" he asked.

Aramis looked around. "We need to move these beds into the hallway so we can clean this place properly," he said. "Then we can mop the floor and wash the instruments."

"Whadda we need t' wash 'em for?" a voice drawled from the doorway as two more men wandered in. Aramis guessed the speaker was Barnet. There was a challenging gleam in his hazel eyes.

"Fair question," Aramis said mildly. "Imagine this: we've engaged another ship in a fight. You take the sharp edge of a sword to your leg, and it's bleeding everywhere. They bring you down here, and I sew you up, pretty as you like. But, oh dear, I've used one of these dirty needles. Unfortunately for you, you develop an infection. I have to cut your leg off with a rusty saw. The infection spreads until it kills you. If that sounds like a good time to you, feel free to leave the tools dirty."

Barnet's eyes had widened slightly and Mercer looked ill, but Célain was smirking slightly at their discomfort.

"No?" Aramis asked quietly. "It doesn't sound much fun to me, either. I don't like wasting lives. So we are going to clean this place out and set it up properly, so that if any of you get injured, I can save your lives."

Barnet said nothing else when Aramis ordered them to begin carrying the beds to the hallway. He set Mercer and Célain to mopping the floor and motioned Barnet over.

"I need you to do something unpleasant," he told him.

Barnet scowled. "Why me?"

"Because you seem like a smart man," Aramis said. "If I send an idiot to do this, I'll probably get what's left of him in a box."

Aramis could see his strategy was working. Barnet looked both unsettled and proud to have been singled out.

"What do you need?"

"I need you to go find the quartermaster and tell him I need a barrel of wine," Aramis said. Barnet blanched but nodded, squaring his shoulders as he headed out.

While he was gone, Aramis carried the tools into the private cabin that was technically still his and laid them out on the bed, cataloging what he had to work with. Everything was in terrible shape, but at least the tools seemed to be well made.

Barnet returned a short while later with a small barrel over his shoulder, a bit pale but otherwise intact. Aramis instructed him to pour some of the wine into the shallow bin that had held the tools, and then they set to work scrubbing away rust and grime until every instrument looked brand new.

"That's enough," Aramis said, surveying the results. "Let's go help get those beds back in."

He and Barnet returned to the main room, and between the four of them they were able to move the tables and beds back in relatively quickly. Aramis eyed the dirty linens with distaste, but he hadn't found any replacements.

"Sir?" a voice said from behind him. He turned to find Mercer speaking for the first time. He was a skinny man who seemed to shrink behind others whenever Aramis looked at him. "I think there are some extra sheets 'n things down in the 'old."

"Do you know where they might be?" Mercer nodded. "See if you can find them, then. If we can remake the beds and put the tools away, we should be done with an hour left before supper."

Mercer ran off to search for the sheets while Aramis and the others brought the clean instruments back out and put them away in the medical cabinet, rerolling the linen bandages within and coiling thread for stitches.

As it turned out, Mercer was right. He brought back enough linen to remake every bed afresh. "What should we do wit' the old stuff?" Célain asked, wrinkling his nose.

Aramis looked down at it. "Normally I'd say burn it, but in this situation, maybe toss it overboard," he said. The men chuckled and piled it in the hall to carry upstairs later.

"Well, men, it looks like we're done," Aramis said, surveying the room. Cleaned and organized, it looked like a proper surgeon's cabin at last.

"Should we report back to Roland 'till dinner?" Barnet asked, looking put out by the idea.

Aramis gave him a grin. "There's only an hour left before dinner," he said. "And you men have done a lot of work already, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes," they chorused hesitantly.

"Well," Aramis went on. "The way I see it, there's half a barrel of wine in the other room, an hour until dinner, and no one else knows you've finished early." He could see grins twitching on their lips as he spread his arms. "I think you've earned some time to relax."

A knock on the door had Athos growling, "I told you it wasn't ready yet, Porthos!"

"I'll be sure to tell him," Aramis chuckled, wandering in. Athos shot him a dirty look and went back to his inventory. "What's the matter, mon ami?"

Athos tossed down the sheaf of parchment he'd been using for notes. "The hold is a disaster, that's the problem! Apparently Gavillier couldn't be bothered to keep track of the stores, because there's no list of them anywhere!"

"Isn't that your job anyway?" Aramis asked, hopping up onto a barrel.

"That brute Sauvagne wouldn't let me down here," Athos muttered. "They didn't trust me, apparently. I thought you were doing something in the surgeon's cabin." Athos eyed him darkly. "Where's my wine?"

"We put it to good use," Aramis said smoothly. "The, ah, renovations ended early, so I left the men the last of the wine and decided to come see if you needed a hand."

"What I need is more food in this damn hold."

"Are we in danger of running out?" Aramis asked, looking worried.

Athos sighed. "Probably not, but we may be in danger if we get becalmed," he told him. "We've got plenty of grog, and some extra barrels of water that were brought over from our ship, but it we may be living off some unpleasant rations if the journey stretches longer than Porthos has estimated it will."

"How much longer does he think we'll be at sea?" Aramis asked, frowning.

Athos shrugged. "Another few weeks is what he said."

"That's not too bad," Aramis murmured. "Now come on, you've been down in this dank hold long enough. It's almost dinner time."

Athos gathered up his papers and followed Aramis out of the hold, dropping them off in his room as they passed. Aramis told him about the improvements they'd made to the medical cabin, and Athos had to admit he was impressed.

On deck, everything seemed to be going smoothly. Athos tried very hard not to look up at the rigging where he could hear D'Artagnan laughing and calling orders. It unsettled him to see men crawling through the air with nothing to hold them to the ship but their own strength.

Porthos came over to where they stood by the mast, watching the crew work. "You finish the inventory?" he asked, leaning against the mast beside Aramis until their shoulders brushed. Athos rolled his eyes and gave his report, though he doubted Porthos was giving him his full attention.

"We have enough food and drink to see us to the islands, but we'll need to restock there and pray we don't hit bad weather or doldrums on the way."

That got Porthos's attention. "What?" Athos asked, noting the way Porthos's eyes had narrowed thoughtfully.

"I don't know what we got for capitol," Porthos admitted. "All we 'ave is the winnings from La Doncella, and she was no big prize."

"What are you saying?"

"We may have to raid a ship if we're gonna 'ave enough money to resupply," Porthos said quietly.

"You mean, raid like pirates?" Aramis asked, looking appalled.

Porthos shrugged uncomfortably. "Yeah, maybe. There's no other way to get funds, love. If we see another Spanish ship, we may 'ave to take 'er."

"Is that the only way?" Athos asked bluntly.

"I c'n check the funds and see if we got anything sellable, but I don't see another option," he rumbled. "This is a privateer, after all."

Athos sighed and nodded his assent. "Very well. See if there's anything that can be done, and order the crew to watch for potential prizes."

"I'll do it at call tomorrow," Porthos agreed. "For now I'm gonna go 'ave a chat about the rations with the cook." He pushed off the mast but paused. "Watch the deck, eh? You're the quartermaster. If anyone acts up, you're the one who's s'posed to punish 'em."
Athos nodded his understanding and put a hand on Aramis's arm when he made to follow him. "Oh no. If I'm stuck up here, you are too. You'll just distract him."

"I would do no such thing!" Aramis protested indignantly, but he stayed where he was, looking around. "Ah, Athos? Is it just me, or has everyone decided to stop working hard?"

Athos glanced over and saw several crew members had dropped down to sit on the railing as soon as Porthos vanished. Quiet conversation had already sprung up among the largest group. It seemed that without Porthos's presence to motivate them, the men were happy to laze about and abandon their work.

Athos sighed and walked over. Aramis instinctively fell in a step behind and to the right, guarding his back.

"Gentlemen," Athos said coolly, eyeing the group. "Back to work."

"Just takin' a bit o' rest," one of the men called. All Athos knew about him was that he had been among those not sent to the island, and therefore was likely one of Gavillier's supporters. This was a crucial moment.

"Taking a bit of rest, sir," Athos corrected. "And no, you aren't. There's work to be done, and you will continue to do it until the dinner bell has rung."

In the rigging, he could hear D'Artagnan having a similar conversation, but the men seemed to be responding better than him, resuming their work. Athos's group continued to laze about, smirking at him.

"Or what?" the leader drawled. "You'll whip us?"

If Athos hadn't been listening for it, he would have missed the sharp breath Aramis drew at the words. As it was, he fought not to draw his blade and challenge the man before him. He forced himself to calm, aware his authority was being tested.

Oh, the poor fools.

"Or you will be punished," Athos said coldly. "This is your only warning."

The men all laughed. Athos glanced over to a group that had remained diligently working and saw they were sneaking glances at what was happening.
Athos had no wish to be harsh, but he would not allow these ruffians to think his authority, and by extension Porthos's, could be ignored. "Very well. You have made your choice. Grog for you and your compatriots will be stopped for the week. Grog for everyone will be withheld for the evening, so you may explain to your friends that their loss us your fault. Tomorrow you will oil and clean every cannon on the deck, or you will be thrown in the brig until you learn to follow orders."

Most of the men had gone pale at his words, but the leader opened his mouth again. Before he could speak, Athos said sharply, "Argue or protest, and it will be every cannon on the ship. Now get back to work."

The men returned to the rigging with sullen glares. Behind him, Aramis murmured, "Taking away everyone's grog? Won't that make them resent us more?"

"Look around," Athos said softly. "The rest of the crew is glaring at them, not at us."

It was true. Athos could see every man that had heard his words glaring daggers at the rule breakers. "The crew understands that what those men were doing cannot stand, and now they understand that insubordinate behavior will affect not only them, but their friends and compatriots. Further, they now know that we have not taken over the ship just to torment them as Gavillier and Sauvagne did. We will be harsh, but fair."

He glanced over to see Aramis nodding in understanding, a faint smile on his face. "What amuses you?" he asked.

Aramis chuckled. "I've just remembered why you terrify everyone we meet, mon ami," he said lightly. "Shall I go inform Porthos and the cook of the ban on grog?"

"Yes, thank you," Athos said, shaking his head as Aramis went. He couldn't deny part of him was pleased to know he instilled terror in the hearts of everyone he met.

Athos kept his position until the dinner bell rang. There were no further infractions, and a few of the men gave him respectful nods as they went below decks. D'Artagnan dropped down and began telling Athos all about his first day as first mate as they headed to the mess hall to join Aramis and Porthos.

Athos nodded along and tried to ignore the boy's ridiculous hat, allowing himself to relax properly for the first time since they'd boarded the ship.

Chapter Text

Porthos lounged over the wheel, turning idly to give Roland a break at the hottest part of the day. The sun was past the yardarm now and he was simply enjoying the relentless heat and the cool breeze. The memory of what he and Aramis had got up to their first night on the giant bed in his cabin helped relieve the boredom as well

D'Artagnan's skin had begun to take on an even darker tone now that he was practically living in the rigging, taking his role as first mate very seriously. Aramis flitted between decks, braving the heat when he could, his hat never off of his head even when Porthos teased him about the wilting feather. D'Artagnan kept casting envious looks at it, his own hat left below after it had nearly plunged into the sea on an errant breeze.

Athos, of course, had kept his delicate constitution below decks all day so far, savoring his wine and glaring at anyone who wandered past. Now that he wasn't drinking it constantly, he had become even more careful with it.

He felt a surge of attention from the wilting feather at his side, and lifted his chin with a pleased smile when Aramis's hand cupped his jaw.

"You need to shave."

Porthos dropped his chin to glare at Aramis, who managed to stay perfectly coiffed despite the heat. He seemed so much happier now that he was sleeping enough and with access to some of his necessities.

Why necessities involved a razor and soap, he had no idea.

Although, wine wasn't much of an improvement.

"We're at sea," he replied, and was fairly certain that he wasn't whining.

"And that gives you an excuse to look like a salty ragamuffin?" Aramis asked stubbornly, his eyebrows raised in amusement.

"Yes?"

"No."

"Aramis," he pleaded, and then looked expectantly at his hands on the wheel. "I have to steer, see? I can't leave."

There had to have been only five seconds of silence, just enough time for his words to sail on the wind and reach the rigging.

D'Artagnan dropped out of nowhere with an enthusiastic smile. "I can do it!"

Porthos narrowed his eyes at them both, not putting it past them to have conspired against him. Confronted with D'Artagnan's hopeful gaze and Aramis's affectionate one, Porthos was doomed.

He groaned out loud and dragged his hands from the warm wood of the wheel, deliberately bumping D'Artagnan on the shoulder when the boy immediately took over.

He tried one last time to escape, affecting D'Artagnan's desperately hopeful look and stuck his lower lip out at Aramis.

Aramis took a step back with a surprised expression lighting his attractive features. "You're good at that. I never knew."

He sighed resignedly when Aramis simply laughed and jerked his head at the captain's cabin. Walking with the trudging gait of a man being sent to his ruin, he grumbled, "Yeah, bein' scary works better."

Aramis hummed in agreement and then coaxed him over the door's threshold with a soft hand on his arm and a smile from under his lashes. As soon as Porthos had closed the door behind him, Aramis's smile turned sly. "Being charming works even better."

"Menace," he growled, but chuckled when Aramis obeyed his gentle tug and stepped into the circle of his arms. Aramis's skin was already cooling, and his lover immediately relaxed into his warmer hold, a happy exhalation dropping from his lips when Porthos leaned in for a kiss.

But then Aramis stiffened and mumbled, "Shave."

"Ah," he said with quiet humor, still trying to catch Aramis's mouth with his, "That's why you want me to shave."

Aramis tried to glare at him, eyelids fluttering when Porthos gently rubbed his face against Aramis's neck. He pressed kisses there, alternating between soft touches and forceful rubs, enjoying Aramis's quivers.

"Couldn't do this if I shaved."

"I don't want it all off," Aramis retorted hotly, as if offended at the thought of him being clean-shaven. "You are a pirate, after all."

He gave a pleased chuckle against the tan length of his throat. "Have a reputation to maintain."

"Exactly," Aramis replied smugly and brought his fingers up to stroke against Porthos's beard, "And you can be well-maintained."

He bit a reprimand on heated skin, savoring Aramis's sharp inhalation as he grumbled, "How's that gonna make me look scary?"

"You threaten enough people with your scowl, mon cher," Aramis gasped, and then added dryly, "And if that isn't enough, they can say otherwise to my arquebus."

He pulled back to level said scowl at Aramis, who shuddered and pushed closer. "Yes," Aramis murmured, desire deepening his voice, "That's the one."

Porthos grasped the opportunity, tangling one hand in Aramis's hair and bringing their lips together. Aramis responded voraciously, his mouth opening on a groan as Porthos delved its depths with his tongue.

A line of cold steel rested against his neck.

He froze, ever-so-slowly disentangling himself from the sweetness of Aramis's mouth and muttered, "Wasn't expecting that."

He could just about see Aramis's raised arm which ended with the razor in his careful grip. Aramis's smirk was dangerously attractive as he rubbed his hips against Porthos's, and it turned into a grin when he felt rather betraying evidence there.

"Neither was I," Aramis taunted silkily.

"Shut up," he grumbled, feeling a flush on his cheeks. "S'just a surprise."

Aramis made a pleased noise. "I'm very pleasantly surprised."

"Am I gonna shave or not?" he asked quickly, enjoying the little glint in Aramis's eyes too much, even as he knew with absolute certainty that Aramis would never hurt him.

"You are not," Aramis said finally, removing the razor and regarding it carefully. Porthos took a relieved breath but it caught in his throat, because the line of cold was back against it. "I am."

"You are?" he asked incredulously. When Aramis started pushing him backwards with his spare hand, the razor tucked safely away somewhere, he stammered, "We're on a ship!"

"Yes, and I've been doing this since we left France."

"But, but…" he trailed off nervously as he fell back into a chair and Aramis loomed above him.

"Don't you trust me, mon cher?"

Aramis had paused, giving him a moment to breathe. "Course I do-"

"Excellent," Aramis interrupted, and then straddled his legs.

Instinct took over and he shifted Aramis more comfortably over his lap, his hands resting on a slender waist as his thumbs rucked up Aramis's shirt to touch skin.

"Now, now," Aramis chided, but his smile was delighted. "Time for that later."

"I'll hold you to that," he chuckled, and stifled a groan when Aramis deliberately pushed his hips forward. Heat flared in his stomach and he wondered how he had let himself get dragged into this, but reasoned he would gain some leverage if he submitted to this.

This... grooming.

A tiny smile twitched at his lips as the heat softened into something infinitely affectionate.

There was a splash of water to his side and Porthos glared at the rest of the room which, he realized far too late, was suspiciously ready for a shaving session. "You did plan this!"

"Of course I did. D'Artagnan approached me this morning after breakfast and, in what might have been one of the most awkward conversations I've ever experienced, told me that I had razor burn on my cheeks."

He blinked for a moment and then burst out laughing, practically crying at the adorably aggrieved look on Aramis's face. "It was awful, Porthos! I saw the moment he realized what the actual cause was and it felt as if I had divested him of his innocence!"

"We're givin' him a very poor teachin' out here."

"I know, we're terrible role models," Aramis sighed in faux-reluctance, and Porthos chuckled, pulling on tan hips to entice Aramis downwards for a kiss.

"That reminds me," he muttered into Aramis's mouth, "We need to raid Athos's stash again."

"Ah, of course, the wine merchant," Aramis remarked and leaned back, tilting Porthos's chin up with one deft hand.

The first sweep of steel against his cheek was only mildly terrifying, and he settled when he rubbed his thumbs gently over Aramis's waist. It was surprisingly soothing, watching Aramis focus so intently on him.

It was the same level of focus as when Aramis was stitching a wound, but with the added benefit of not being in pain and instead having Aramis warm and happy against him.

The heat manifested again and he took a rather large breath without thinking.

"Care," Aramis chided absent-mindedly, flicking the razor's soap into the bowl of water. When his attention returned, it was with a quick glance at his lidded eyes and a small smile. "Don't breathe for a moment."

He stilled, letting Aramis gently move him about, and then the razor pressed against his neck. The hair gave way easily beneath the sharp edge and Aramis's clever hands, and far, far too slowly, Aramis was done.

He dropped the razor near the water bowl and sat back with a satisfied grin. "Perfect."

"S'what I was gonna say," he murmured, and then held Aramis' hips down as he ground his own hips upward. Aramis' spine arched as a surprised moan dropped from his lips, and Porthos let out a similar one at the sight.

Aramis's intensity was back and it focused on his mouth .He linked his arms around Porthos's neck as he leaned forward to nip hungrily at his neatly shaved jaw.

Porthos grunted when Aramis writhed against him, and dragged one hand from hipbone to breeches. When the knot snarled about his fingers and growling at it didn't work, he snapped his other arm out to the table.

With the razor in Porthos's hand, Aramis completely froze, a look of wide-eyed astonishment on his face. A strangled noise tore from his throat and then his whole body convulsed in enraptured shivers.

Porthos let a dirty grin form as he spun the blade between his fingers and rubbed his other hand against breeches that had suddenly got even tighter. "Well, well. Ain't that surprisin'."

Aramis flushed, even as he kept watching the flashes of metal with a look torn between apprehension and exhilaration.

Porthos very, very slowly brought the razor closer and hooked it under the knot of Aramis's breeches. He looked up, catching brown eyes completely blown with desire, and tugged.

Aramis whimpered, and it went straight to Porthos' cock. He threw the blade back onto the table and pulled the sliced laces apart, chuckling when Aramis sagged against him and then jerked upright again when Porthos closed his fingers around heated length.

"Quite like 'aving you in my lap," he said with a smirk, enjoying Aramis's restless wriggling against his crotch.

Aramis watched him through his lashes and then raked his nails over Porthos's scalp, matching his groan when he instinctively tightened his grip. Aramis rocked into his palm, his breath quick and shallow as something like a pleased smile curved his lips.

"Tricky, aren't you?" Porthos growled, and deliberately relaxed his hold.

Aramis's eyes whipped to his, a furious fire roaring there. Porthos simply settled into his chair and braced his arms behind his head, raising one eyebrow at Aramis's indignant anger.

"Fine," Aramis purred, resolution firming in his smile, and drove one hand into his own hair as he curled the other around his cock.

Porthos couldn't restrain his throaty groan as every one of his muscles clenched in a shocked burst of lust at the outrageously delicious scene playing out in front of him.

Aramis moved like a sinuous streak of silk, his rhythm smooth as he tipped his head back and small eager noises sounded from the stretch of his throat. Porthos dragged his eyes up and down, unable to keep his arms from dropping, one hand back to Aramis's hip and the other to his own breeches.

Aramis flashed him a smug smirk but moved a little faster when Porthos started slowly palming himself, still content to watch. Irritation crossed Aramis's attractive features briefly, and he pulled his shirt off, exposing golden skin that made Porthos growl appreciatively.

He dug a thumb into Aramis's hip to make his rhythm falter and grinned lazily when Aramis sent him a scathing glare that sparked with heat.

He knew the moment Aramis's game had changed, his already supple movements turned even smoother as bent forward gracefully and licked at Porthos's lips.

His own rhythm faltered, and then both of Aramis's hands rested on his chest and scratched downwards, sending lines of white fire down his torso. Porthos bucked upwards, his fingers brushing Aramis's cock and he automatically reached for them both.

Aramis's gasp was a laugh and a groan and a scorching kiss on his throat.

He had been played.

"Absolute menace," he growled in delight, and rubbed his hand up their slick lengths at the same time. His groan echoed Aramis's as he pressed them closer together and his fingers slipped in pre-come.

"I learned from the best," Aramis panted, his back curved as he nipped at Porthos's collarbone.

Porthos chuckled breathlessly, settling into a pace that suited him but wasn't quite as fast as Aramis liked. He was used to this. He was also used to Aramis's reactions when he spoke dirty to him.

The religious man murmuring prayers against his skin liked being scandalized.

"You know what I was thinkin' when I was at the helm, earlier?"

Aramis's answer was a questioning murmur and Porthos waited as long as he possibly could, darkly satisfied when Aramis started jerking in his grip, trying to urge him to go faster.

He didn't, he just lowered his tone and voiced a want he'd had since they had first set foot on the sea. "I wanna have the wheel in my hands and you on your knees with my cock in your elegant mouth."

Aramis's inhaled a sharp breath and then shuddered violently, his movements suddenly desperate. Porthos dragged his hand through Aramis's hair, pulling him upwards so that he could watch his face as his came.

It was his favorite thing in the world.

"Porthos," Aramis cried, his eyes squeezed shut as his hips stuttered. Porthos tugged hard on his dark curls and grinned around a groan when blown brown eyes opened obediently. Aramis kept his gaze even as he panted through his finish, sticky warmth covering Porthos's hand as he continued stroking.

The sight was enough to have him close to the edge and when Aramis sagged forward to bite him hard on the muscle between neck and shoulder, he grunted in surprise.

Wet heat covered the flare of pain and then Aramis whispered, "I like the sound of that, Captain."

Porthos came with a yell.

Aramis snickered against Porthos's shoulder, delighted to hear one of Porthos's fantasies – and such a sordid one, too.

Porthos tipped back in the chair and his chest rose and fell with harsh breaths. Finally, he lifted his head back up and said breathlessly, "Really?"

He smirked, mouthing gentle kisses across dark collarbone. "Really. Perhaps we can send D'Artagnan off to Athos's room some night."

There was a stirring against his leg and Aramis sat up with a raised eyebrow. "My, you've kept this quiet."

Porthos's grin was completely unabashed but he ducked his head slightly. "Wasn't sure if you'd be up for it."

He paused for a moment, considering. "It surprised me, but I can't say I'm not intrigued now."

"Yeah?"

Aramis smiled at the hope tempered with desire on Porthos's face. "Yes, but I don't care what you say about pirates and ports, I will not risk anyone seeing."

Porthos chuckled and tilted his head up for a kiss. "As you wish."

Aramis hummed happily against his lips and then looked pointedly at the bowl of water. "I've used that once already today, you need to fetch more."

A grumble met his instruction and then Porthos eased him off of his lap. "If I go out there, I'll have to take the wheel again."

He sent Porthos a heated glance and Porthos exhaled with single-minded focus. "Okay, I'll put off helm duties 'til tonight."

"Wow, did Aramis do that?" D'Artagnan asked, a faint note of awe in his voice that set Aramis to preening proudly. He smiled at the Gascon as the boy dropped down from the rigging to land beside them.

Aramis laughed when D'Artagnan leaned in as if to examine Porthos's jaw more closely. "Honestly, did you have so little faith in me?" he chided, leaning comfortably against Porthos's shoulder. The crew was in the mess having dinner, so they had the deck to themselves until Roland returned and sent them off to Porthos's cabin to dine together.

Athos chuckled wryly, pulling the lad away from Porthos before the shifting of the ship sent him tumbling into him. "Aramis can shave on horseback. The sea is no worse."

Aramis lifted his chin haughtily even as his hands drifted instinctively to his sleeves, tugging them down over his wrists once more to hide his scars from view. He'd taken to covering them once again. "I take appearance very seriously."

D'Artagnan looked at him oddly. "I don't know why," he said, shaking his head slowly. "You know you're… you know."

Aramis gaped at him, trapped somewhere between shock and grateful affection. He glanced over at Athos, who had raised an eyebrow.

"Did D'Artagnan almost call me handsome?"

Athos chuckled. "I think he did."

"Thank you, D'Artagnan," Aramis replied with amused gravity, hoping his voice would not reveal how touched he was by the lad's words. "But I'm afraid I'm taken."

"I didn't mean like that!" D'Artagnan cried, an affronted blush on his cheeks as he scowled at him.

"I know you didn't," Aramis finally said, a fond smile on his face. "Thank you."

"This is all very touching, but if we're to have any wine with dinner, I'd best fetch it now," Athos said dryly, cutting through the sentimentality with consummate ease. "And I believe you left your hat in that godforsaken nest in the sails, D'Artagnan."

Aramis shot Athos a grateful smile for the timely distraction, still a little embarrassed about how deeply D'Artagnan's words had touched him.

D'Artagnan gave him a scandalized look and then disappeared back into the rigging as Athos disappeared below decks. Porthos's arm hooked around his waist and he realized he'd straightened with tension, pulling away from his lover. With a sigh, he let his shoulders relax properly, leaning against the warm muscle of Porthos's shoulder.

Aramis settled comfortably against him, hooking his fingers under the cuff of his sleeves to trace over the thick scars that rose like ropes around his wrists. His brain was trying to supply him with unpleasant images no matter how hard he tried to suppress them.

The shock and disgust on the faces of the crew when his shirt had been cut away and the mess that was his back revealed.

D'Artagnan's horrified, furious expression when he saw the scars for the first time.

Athos sacrificing his shirt so he could cover the hideous slashes and hide his shame from the prying eyes.

Even worse was the memory of Gavillier's words. They still echoed in his ears sometimes when he was alone.

A pretty face…the rest of you isn't very pretty at all…not like that young pup…

Aramis shook his head as if he could forcibly expel the bitter thoughts. He was not a vain man, but the part of him that had been disgusted at the sight of his own ruined skin had been cut to the core by those words. Gavillier might not have broken him, but his confidence had taken a heavy blow.

"He's right, you know." Porthos's voice was a deep rumble over the sound of the waves as he finally spoke. "The pup. He's right."

"Please, Porthos, I'm damaged goods," Aramis replied, proud that his voice did not waver.

"You aren't goods, love," Porthos said firmly. "And even if you were, you'd be a fuckin' prize."

Aramis didn't say anything. He didn't trust his voice not to betray him as confused gratitude warred with self-hatred in his breast.

"Hey," Porthos turned him around and brought up his hand to brush gently over his cheeks and arms, pulling his hands away from the scars on his wrists. "These," he said, brushing his fingers over the same scars, "This," he said over his beard, "They don't matter. They're just parts of a whole, and you're wholly gorgeous."

Aramis would never know what he had done to deserve someone who understood him so perfectly, but he would be forever indebted to God for bringing them together. Affectionate warmth bloomed and threatened to spike behind his eyes, so he leaned forward and took Porthos's lips in a gentle, grateful kiss.

There was a muttered cursing from somewhere up in the rigging, but they both ignored it.

Chapter Text

Despite the recent happiness he'd felt, Aramis knew things were far from perfect. After a few days, the fallout from the mutiny was finally fading, and with it went the restraint of the crew. When Aramis walked alone past certain groups, he sometimes caught the whispers.

It was usually men who'd been among the more vocal of Gavillier's supporters. Calling him Porthos's 'kept boy' seemed to be a favorite insult, but he'd also heard 'murderer' tossed around. It seemed all the deaths in the mutiny were being laid at his feet.

Unfortunately, the men were careful with their insults. Apparently his duel with the captain had been enough to make them fear him, so they never spoke loudly enough for him to hear properly. He caught the conversations only in snatches. What he heard wasn't enough provocation to demand a duel, and as he had no technical authority to assign punishments, he had no choice but to let the insults pass.

Aramis tried not to let it get to him and focused instead on building rapport with those members of the crew whose respect he felt he had a decent chance of earning. There would always be some that would dislike or resent him, but Aramis was a naturally friendly and charming person, and the rest he knew he could win over with time.

It was part of the reason why he'd suggested this.

"Athos, D'Artagnan, are you ready?" he asked over the snapping of the sails. They'd hit a brisk wind at last, and Porthos hoped they could ride it for a few days. He was up at the wheel, watching Aramis's little experiment.

"I don't see why I can't wear my boots," Athos muttered darkly. He was standing across from D'Artagnan with the crew circling them, leaving a large open spot in the middle. He was also bootless.

"Because most of the crew wouldn't wear boots in a battle, so whatever moves you show them must work without boots," Aramis explained impatiently. "Now would you just try to stab him already?"

D'Artagnan's laugh cut off abruptly as Athos did as instructed. The lad danced back out of reach, and they began to spar.

Aramis cast an eye over the assembled crew, who were watching with interest. He'd noticed many of them relied more on manic energy and brute strength than any sort of skill in a fight, and so he'd asked Porthos for permission to stage training sessions for the men. It gave them a stronger crew and also won them the crew's respect as fighters.

And his brothers were certainly putting on a good show. They seemed more evenly matched than in their last bout, and Aramis suppressed a smirk when he realized it was because Athos was having trouble adjusting to the often slippery deck without his boots.

He was still a matchless swordsman, though, and before long he'd managed to slip through D'Artagnan's guard and press the point of his blade against the lad's heart.

"I almost had you!" D'Artagnan cried as the crew alternately cheered or groaned, not remotely upset by his loss.

"Almost doesn't count," Athos said, pulling his boots back on. "What are we meant to do now?"

A hush fell over the crew as they waited expectantly. "Now we will try to form orderly lines and practice a few strikes," Aramis called. With some difficulty and a lot of grumbling, he managed to get the men organized into two lines, facing one another.

"The important thing to remember is not to accidentally skewer your opponent while practicing," Aramis said sternly, eyeing a younger crewman who was clutching his sword nervously. He was reminded forcibly of Belén and had to pause and take a breath before he continued.

"Athos, D'Artagnan, if you would be so kind as to demonstrate a few manoeuvers," he called.

His brothers took up positions at the end of the line and began a few of the more basic manoeuvers, and one by one the pairs began to imitate them, with varying levels of success. Aramis moved up and down the line, correcting stances until the demonstration was finished. Then he turned the instruction over to Athos and D'Artagnan and stood back to watch things unfold.

It seemed to be going well. Athos called out moves while D'Artagnan scurried about, correcting holds and footwork for men twice his age. Aramis was pleased to see none of them seemed to resent the lad for his skill, but rather listened to his instructions eagerly.

"This was a good idea." Roland's voice made him turn. He found the bosun watching the men with an interested expression. "Where'd you learn to teach?"

"I was a soldier before I received my commission," Aramis said. He'd found he liked the second mate. He was a good ally.

"I was in the army myself," Roland told him. "Joined when I was sixteen, but I'd always wanted to be a sailor, so when my time was up, I went to Le Havre and begged my way aboard a ship."

"How did you come to join Gavillier?" Aramis asked curiously.

Roland shrugged. "I was serving under a second rate captain when he was killed in battle. I got the ship into port on my own. Gavillier heard the story and offered me a spot on his crew. I took it because it was legal and because he was a captain with a history of taking fair prizes."

Aramis thought about that. "Was he always so…"

"Power-mad?" Roland suggested wryly. Aramis nodded. "No, not at first. It got worse when we started going after bigger prizes. Then he started chasing French ships and everything went to shit. I was planning to jump ship next time we made port. The prize money wasn't worth the risk of serving under a captain who'd kill you as quickly as the enemy."

Porthos's laugh boomed across the deck as he shouted down to some poor hapless soul who'd managed to get his blade stuck in the deck, teasing him even as he offered suggestions. "Porthos is a better captain than Gavillier ever was," Roland said seriously.

Aramis nodded even as his stomach twinged a bit at seeing Porthos so in his element here. The sea suited him.

"I'm sure you'll make a good captain when we're gone," he offered.

"I'm not so sure," Roland muttered.

Aramis frowned at him. "Why not? I thought Porthos was training you."

"He is," Roland said. "It's just… I can read a map and all, but he just handed me the navigational charts and told me to learn them. He never asked if I knew how."

"Are they very difficult?"

"I wouldn't know," Roland said, a trace of shame in his tone. "I can't read."

"You didn't tell Porthos that?" Aramis asked. Roland shook his head, looking ashamed. "He wouldn't judge you, you know. Porthos taught himself to read not that long ago."

"I don't want to let him down," Roland said quietly. Aramis's neck suddenly ached from the weight of the cross and the secret he carried. Oh, he knew that feeling.

"I could teach you," he offered. Roland's wide eyes changed for a moment with Belén's, and Aramis had to look down at the deck while he waited for an answer.

"You don't have to…" Roland murmured, but his gaze was feverishly hopeful.

Aramis shrugged, forcing a smile until Belén's memory faded once more. "I don't have much else to do," he said lightly. "I'm useless aboard the ship except as a surgeon, and I'd be more than happy if I'm never called on in that capacity. If you've the time, I can teach you."

Roland smiled at him. "I wouldn't call you useless," he said, nodding at the training below them. "But I do accept your offer."

"Excellent. Would you like to begin now?"

Roland looked panicked for a moment, but nodded firmly. "Very well."

Aramis led the way to Porthos's cabin, planning to use some of his charts as a starting point. A group of crew members not participating in the training were lolling about nearby. Carried on the breeze, Aramis heard clearly the words 'bed warmer.'

He gritted his teeth and would have kept walking, but Roland had paused. Curious, Aramis turned back in time to see the men receive a blistering dressing down that culminated in them being sent below to swap out the mess and corridors.

"That won't stop them," Aramis said when they'd filed past, glaring at him. "They'll never respect me."

Roland shrugged, his gaze hard. "Then I'll continue to punish them until they learn to keep those thoughts to themselves," he said firmly. "Shall we continue?"

Aramis inclined his head to the other man, in acceptance and also in appreciation for not only what he'd done, but the message he had sent. As he led the way to the cabin, he reflected that having allies was not as good as having friends.

"Aramis?" Porthos called, knocking on the door to their cabin. Athos had said he'd seen Aramis and Roland head off together some time ago, but he hadn't known why. Porthos wasn't anxious, exactly, but not knowing where Aramis was still left an unpleasant feeling in his stomach.

"Come in!" Aramis's voice called a moment later. Mystified, Porthos pushed the door open to find Aramis and Roland bent over the maps on his desk.

"What's all this, then?" he asked, wandering over. He looked at the documents spread over the desk curiously. "The charts?"

Roland opened his mouth to speak, looking a bit embarrassed, but Aramis cut him off. "Roland was just showing me how to read them," he said, draping himself along Porthos's side. Porthos raised an eyebrow at the open display, but Aramis seemed perfectly relaxed and Roland didn't appear to mind, so Porthos let his arm tighten around Aramis's waist.

"I coulda done that," he said mildly. "Bit offended you didn't wanna learn from me."

Aramis rolled his eyes. "You're busy running a ship, mon cher," he said, smiling slightly. "Roland has far more time to spare to teach me things like this."

Aramis's smile could've melted the hardest heart. "Alright," Porthos said gruffly. "So long as it don't interfere with 'is other duties."

"You have my word, querido," Aramis chuckled. "Now, did you need something?"

"Wanted your advice about somethin'," Porthos murmured. "Yours, too," he added when Roland looked ready to leave them alone. "Remember the captain o' La Doncella?"

Aramis looked away at the reminder, jaw tensing as he leaned a bit more heavily into Porthos. It was clear he still blamed himself for not taking the captain's gun. "What about him?" he asked quietly.

Porthos gave his waist a squeeze before continuing. "Well, he recognized Gavillier, didn't 'e?" he asked, trying not to spit the name. "So it stands to reason others might recognize the ship, if the captain had such a reputation."

"So what if they do?" Aramis asked, looking confused.

"We're sailing a ship that's a known French privateer that's also been taking on 'er own countrymen," Porthos said pointedly. "We meet another French ship, they may come after us if they recognize the name."

"What do you want to do?" Roland asked.

"Rename 'er," Porthos shrugged. "Don't much like the name now, to be honest. She could use a better one."

Roland nodded thoughtfully. "Renaming a ship is a cause for celebration," he murmured. "It might be good for morale to have a bit of a party."

"Do we have the supplies?" Aramis asked, glancing up at him.

"We should. We might be tightenin' our belts before the end of the voyage, but that's all the more reason to let 'em celebrate a bit now, while we got enough for it," Porthos said firmly.

"Shall I inform the crew?" Roland asked respectfully.

Porthos started a bit at the suddenness but decided that tonight was as good a time as any. They finally had a strong wind behind them, and the residual bitterness from the mutiny was wearing off. "Yeah, alright. Tell 'em we'll stop an hour before dinner an' celebrate. And send Athos in," Porthos ordered. Roland nodded and strode out of the cabin.

As soon as he was gone, Porthos looked down at Aramis worriedly. "Quick, love," he muttered. "What's a good name for a ship?"

Aramis's eyes widened. "I don't know," he hissed back. "Why didn't you think of that already?"

"I didn't think I'd need it quite so soon!" Porthos cried. "Shit. I dunno, we could call 'er Musketeer?"

"That's far too obvious," Aramis snapped. "If we sail into the harbor on a ship called Musketeer then we'll never catch Reynard."

"Well unless you got a better idea…"

"Better idea for what?" Athos drawled, striding in.

"We're renaming the ship," Aramis told him. "Porthos didn't bother to think of a name first." He nudged him affectionately with his hips to soften the words, and Porthos smirked despite himself.

Athos looked at them both for a long moment, frowning. They watched silently, not daring to interrupt, until at last Athos spoke. "Phénix."

"La Phénix," Porthos echoed thoughtfully.

"Like a phoenix from the ashes." Aramis's smile was wide and excited. "It's perfect."

"Obviously," Athos said languidly. "But I assume you didn't call for me just to ask my opinion on ship names?"

Porthos chuckled. "Nah. We're havin' a celebration for the renaming. How much grog can we spare for it? Every man's gotta get 'is share and another, at least."

Athos pondered the question. "There should be enough for that. Grog is one of the few things we still have rather a lot of. It's clear where the captain's priorities lay when he stocked the ship. But there won't be enough for more than one extra share per man."

Porthos nodded, sighing. "I figured. Still it's somethin'. They'll just have to be satisfied. Right. Can you tell the cook to make somethin' special for dinner?"

Athos heaved an exaggerated sigh but nodded. "Very well. Dare I ask if we have paint?"

Porthos stared at him in wide eyed horror for a moment until Aramis laughed. "We do," he said, still chuckling when Porthos turned to glare at him. "I saw some in the hold a few weeks ago."

Porthos blew out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Good. Okay, Athos, get the grog and talk to the cook. Aramis, find the paint. I'll go make sure everything's set on deck and send the pup down to help."

Athos nodded and left. Aramis stayed long enough to whip off a passable salute. The effect was ruined when he winked wickedly before darting out, well aware of how attractive he looked.

Porthos growled a curse after him and prowled out onto the deck to find Roland. He spent the next few hours dashing between the mess hall and the deck, trying to sort out all the details of the celebration. If Aramis hadn't been following him patiently, effortlessly correcting all his mistakes, he'd probably have gone mad.

Roland himself painted over the old name with the help of a few trusted crew members, not wanting to alert the entire crew of their scheme ahead of time. When it was done, he'd tracked Porthos and Aramis down in the mess hall and asked who was to paint the new name.

"I could do it," Aramis offered before Porthos had time to tell Roland to handle it himself.

Porthos grunted noncommittally. "You do have nice handwritin'," he agreed. "But do you really wanna hang over the side like that?"

Aramis paled a little but nodded determinedly. "If this ship is to start anew, I will at least be sure that it starts as well-appointed and handsome as it can."

Porthos chuckled at the phrasing but agreed that Aramis and Roland would handle painting the name.

That didn't stop him from dashing up to the deck every ten minutes to make sure Aramis hadn't plunged into the ocean.

At last, it was done. Aramis was rubbing irritably at a place on his face that had somehow become smeared with blue paint, but he was smiling when he passed Porthos the rope so that he could lean over to check the freshly painted name.

Below him, La Phénix stretched across the wood. The old name had been soundly erased with the help of some dark paint mixed with wood varnish, and the new letters gleamed up at him.

Porthos grinned to himself. Trust Aramis to somehow mix the colors in such a way that the letters were painted in near-perfect powder blue within a white box.

He swung back up and grinned in response to Aramis's hopeful look. "Call the crew," he ordered Roland, who nodded and darted off. "Here," he added, reaching over to tug Aramis's green bandana off so he could use to clean the paint from his cheek.

"Did you like it?" Aramis asked, submitting to the grooming with a pleased smile. His hair had sprung up in wild curls around his head the instant the bandana was removed, and he looked far more attractive than any man had a right to be.

"I did, very much," Porthos told him. "Now 'old still."

By the time the crew had assembled, Aramis's face was clean and his bandana was firmly in place once more. Porthos had made a disappointed sound at that until Aramis had whispered that Porthos was the only one who got to see him like that before vanishing to join Athos and D'Artagnan.

Well. Porthos certainly wasn't going to argue with that.

The men formed a milling group in front of where they stood by the stern. Some were looking a bit nervous, as if they doubted the truth of the celebration. They kept shooting anxious glances at Athos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan, who stood off to one side.

"I suppose you're all wonderin' why you're here," Porthos said, launching in without preamble. "Well, you can all calm down. I said this was gonna be a celebration and I meant it." A few relieved smiles broke out among the crew.

"Things have been rough lately, I ain't gonna lie. And I know a lot of you didn't sign on to 'ave a Musketeer as your captain. But you're my responsibility now and I'm gonna see you're taken care of, so don't you fret. So I thought maybe we oughta do something to show we're starting over, all of us."

The men were watching him raptly, hanging on his words. Behind them, Athos rolled his eyes while Aramis winked flagrantly at him, and Porthos had to hold back a chuckle.

"As a sign o' new beginnings, I decided to rename the ship La Phénix," he announced. "We already repainted 'er, so tonight, we celebrate!"

That earned him a rousing cheer as Roland unveiled several bottles of grog Porthos had ordered rolled onto the deck for just this moment. In seconds, the crew was crowded around the barrels, cups pulled from thin air as they cracked open the casks.

"Well, that went well," Athos said dryly, appearing at his left side.

"They seem happy," Aramis added, brushing against him as he came up on his right.

"Can I drink some grog?" D'Artagnan asked, already pushing past them.

Porthos's hand caught his collar just as Aramis and Athos chorused, "No!"

"That stuff'll kill you, whelp," Porthos chuckled, releasing his shirt. "Stick to wine."

D'Artagnan looked ready to argue until Athos thrust a bottle into his arms. When they all stared at him in shock, he simply shrugged and produced more bottles, passing them to Aramis with a muttered, "It's a party, no? Why shouldn't we celebrate as well?"

Aramis passed Porthos a bottle with a gleeful grin as Athos and D'Artagnan wandered off the join the general celebration before them.

"Think anyone will miss us if we slip away?" he asked slyly. Porthos's attention was caught by the way he was running his fingers up and down the neck of his bottle. He tore his gaze away to search for Roland and jerk his head back towards his cabin. The bosun nodded, smirking slightly, as Porthos and Aramis hurried away from the revelry.

They would be having a private celebration tonight.

Chapter Text

The storm came out of nowhere.

One minute they'd all been heading for bed, exhausted and pleasantly drunk from the celebration, and the next Athos was waking up on the floor as the ship rolled beneath him. That had been three hours ago.

The wind cut through him like knives, the driving rain making him feel as if he were being flayed alive. Athos ducked his head against the force, pathetically grateful for the rope wound around his waist holding him to the mast. He wasn't sure he'd have kept his feet without its presence.

Aramis was huddled against the mast beside him, hood covering his head, drenched through by the rain. His face was pale beneath the pounding water and Athos guessed his seasickness had made a fierce comeback during the four hours they already been fighting this storm.

On his other side, D'Artagnan was watching the wild sea with fascinated eyes. He had a tendency to dash out to the length of his tether during calmer moments and watch the movements of the crew on deck.. He and Athos had arrived at Porthos's cabin at the same time to find their brother already dressed and on the way out the door with Aramis hovering anxiously behind him.

Porthos had ordered them all to stay in his cabin and had expressly forbidden them from helping, and only D'Artagnan had been disappointed. The lad had insisted he was needed on deck anyway, and neither Athos nor Aramis had been comfortable with the idea of letting him go alone.

And so they had all left the comfort of the captain's cabin for this nightmare.

Above them on the upper deck, Athos could make out Porthos's broad shoulders standing at the wheel. When the wind blew towards them they could hear snatches of bellowed orders as he steered the ship through the storm. He'd had Roland lash his hands to the wheel so he couldn't be washed off the ship by the waves that occasionally swamped them.

D'Artagnan shifted impatiently, an indistinct fidgeting figure on Aramis's other side. Even now, with this wild gale shaking the tops, Athos was willing to bet the boy wanted nothing more than to be up in the rigging. One hand kept ahold of his hat, which some madness had determined he wear. Athos and Aramis, being the more sensible pair, wore heavy boat cloaks with hoods.

Another massive wave rocked the boat, washing over the side and spilling in a cold sheet around their feet. Porthos had told them this wasn't going to be a bad storm and should blow itself out within only a few hours. If this was an easy storm, Athos never wanted to see a bad one.

The ship settled slightly, and sure enough D'Artagnan dashed out to the end of his tether, watching the massive peaks of the waves with awe. With a great groaning sound, the cannon at the nearest rail began to roll backwards, snapping its weakened bindings at the ship leaned into a new wave.

Athos knew what was going to happen a split second before it did. "D'Artagnan, don't!" he roared, but the wind stole his command. D'Artagnan's knife flashed, slicing through his tether, and then he was at the cannon, trying to tie it back down.

Terror gripped Athos's heart, paralyzing him. He saw Aramis leap forward out of the corner of his eye, unsteady on the rocking deck, and run out to the end of his rope, obviously intending to grab the boy the second he was back in reach.

He himself only managed a few steps forward, icy fear slowing his movements, when he heard Porthos's voice from above shouting D'Artagnan's name. A massive wave rocked the ship, washing over them all and driving Athos to his knees. When he looked up, the cannon was gone.

And so was D'Artagnan.

"No," Aramis howled, straining forward against his own rope.

"Aramis," he croaked, struggling to force the words from his constricted throat. "He's gone."

"He isn't gone yet," Aramis snarled, pushing free from Athos's restraining hand.

Athos felt as if he were deep underwater, watching everything in slow motion. Aramis turned to look at Porthos, and Athos could hear Porthos screaming and cursing and begging him not to do what they both knew he was going to, his words torn away by the unfeeling wind.

A flash of lightning glinted off the blade in Aramis's hands and blinded Athos for a moment. When he blinked away the black spots in his vision, Aramis was gone.

The sound that came from Porthos was not human, a cry of pure anguish that plunged through Athos like a knife to the heart. He turned dazedly to see Porthos screaming at Roland to cut him loose, tugging desperately at the ropes that bound him to the wheel.

Roland's eyes met Athos's and slowly, hating himself with every fiber of his being, he shook his head no. Porthos would never forgive him, but Athos knew what his friend would never admit.

They were already gone.

He couldn't bear to traverse the last of the slick, rolling deck to look over the edge. No matter what he saw, there was nothing he could so. Shakily, he returned to the mast and wrapped his arms around it to keep himself upright even as his knees threatened to give out beneath him.

Athos lost all concept of time. The storm might have lasted days or hours before he finally became aware of the fact that the wind was blowing with less force, the swell of the sea gentler, like the rocking of a cradle.

Still he did not move.

Suddenly Porthos was there, angry red lines around his wrists where he'd tried futilely to tear himself free from the wheel. Hands fisted into Athos's shirt and slammed him back against the mast.

"Why didn't you stop them?" Porthos shouted furiously. His eyes were red and raw, but Athos could not tell if it was from the salty spray or the grief.

Athos couldn't answer, too busy asking himself his own question: why didn't you go with them?

Porthos's desperate eyes bored into Athos's for a moment longer, and then he snarled and twisted away, heading for the side where their brothers had vanished, leaving Athos alone with his thoughts.

The logical part of his brain was trying to push past the grief and insist that he'd have been lost too if he had followed Aramis into the ocean, and he hated himself for knowing that, but a smaller, broken voice told him that Aramis had known that when he went after D'Artagnan, and had gone regardless.

The sure knowledge that he had failed two more brothers almost drove him to his knees.

Porthos had finally stumbled up to the smashed railing where the cannon had fallen through, gripping what remained with white knuckled hands as he leaned over the edge, red eyes searching the silent ocean.

Athos braced himself for the inevitable grief, closing his eyes and letting his head rest against the mast. He heard a strangled shout from Porthos and then, unbelievably, a splash.

Athos's eyes shot open and he stumbled to his feet, his mind unable to process the fact that Porthos had just flung himself into the sea.

His tether caught just before he reached the railing and he fumbled for a knife to cut himself free. It took several desperate seconds to slice through the waterlogged rope, and the sudden parting drove him to his knees. Staggering upright, he crossed the last few feet to the railing and froze, unable to bring himself to look over the rail.

He couldn't handle that kind of hope.

But Porthos was down there, and he would not abandon him to grieve alone. Shaking, he peered at last down the side of the ship.

He could make out Porthos clinging to the netting that hung along the side here all the way down to the water line, hastily hauling himself across it in the direction off the stern. Athos followed his progress and felt his world constrict to one tiny point as he saw the dark forms tangled in the ropes just above the waves.

There was no way to tell from this far up if either was breathing, and Athos ruthlessly quashed the hope trying to blossom in his chest.

"Bring some rope," he shouted hoarsely at the nearest crewmember, letting the habitual authority ground him. "Gather some men and get back here immediately."

The man hesitated for the barest of moments before the need to obey sent him leaping for the hold to collect ropes and men.

Athos leaned back over the side, watching Porthos's desperate progress end as he finally reached the sodden figures. He couldn't tell which was which from up here, but Porthos grabbed the nearest one unhesitatingly and began trying to extricate him from the netting.

"Rope, sir!" a voice called from behind him, and he spun to find three men waiting with a long length of rope in their hands.

"Throw it over the edge," he ordered, voice calm despite the hope trying to claw its way through his body. He leaned over and shouted down to Porthos, who had almost finished with the first figure, "Tie the rope around him and we'll pull him up."

Porthos's answer was lost as a higher wave washed over him, but a minute later he reached up and tugged firmly on the rope. Athos turned around, his heart constricting, and gave in to hope as he gave the order. "Pull!"

He leaned over, watching the limp figure draw steadily closer but still unable to tell which of his brothers it was. Finally he could stand it no more and tipped precariously over the edge to snag the collar of the blue shirt.

Blue.

D'Artagnan.

Hands helped him pull the boy back onto the ship. He immediately ordered them to throw the rope back down for Porthos and Aramis before turning his attention to D'Artagnan's pale form.

The young Musketeer was freezing cold to the touch, his lips blue in the weak light of the sun beginning to stream through the parting clouds. His shirt was ripped in places and blood oozed sluggishly from a handful cuts and scrapes. Trembling, Athos reached out a hand and laid it against D'Artagnan's neck.

Against his fingers, something thumped, slow but strong.

Athos doubled over, a sob of relief ripping through him with unexpected violence. D'Artagnan was alive.

He allowed himself a few seconds of pure, blissful relief before leaping to his feet and ordering blanket and bandages be brought up and a stretcher found to bring D'Artagnan to the medical cabin. Only once he saw the boy being wrapped in a thick blanket did he turn his attention back over the rail.

It seemed Aramis had been more tangled in the netting than D'Artagnan, for Porthos was only now tying the rope around his chest. Fear hit Athos like a stab in the gut, slicing through the momentary relief. What if Aramis had not survived?

At last Porthos had the rope secured and reached up, waving for them to haul Aramis up. "Grab onto it," Athos yelled down. "We'll bring you up together."

Porthos nodded his understanding and wrapped a hand firmly around the rope, cradling Aramis against him with the other.

Athos helped haul them up, reaching down when they were close enough to pull Aramis the rest of the way onto the deck while Porthos clambered up after. Aramis was in worse shape than D'Artagnan, with more bleeding injuries, but when Athos went to reach for his neck, praying to a God he rarely acknowledged, Aramis suddenly began to cough, choking as water sprayed from his mouth.

Athos froze in shock and was promptly knocked out of the way by Porthos, who gently rolled Aramis onto his side as he hacked up a stream of water. After a minute he fell back limply, and Athos found himself staring into red rimmed eyes.

"Aramis?" Porthos asked hesitantly, voice cracking from the relief. Bleary eyes rolled over to focus on him, and Aramis's hand moved to reach for him, but he let it fall back to the deck as if he lacked the strength.

His eyes roamed back to Athos and he forced a hoarse question past his blue lips. "D'Artagnan?"

"Alive," Athos said, still stunned. He heard Porthos's tremulous sigh of relief at the news. Aramis's lip curled ever so slightly into a smile, and then his eyes slipped closed once more.

"We've got to get him warm," Athos said dazedly, glancing back to find that D'Artagnan had already been borne below decks. Porthos nodded and, before Athos could call for a stretcher, rose with Aramis cradled protectively in his arms.

Athos followed with one last look at the deceptively calm sea. Today, at least, it had been denied.

Something was poking his arm repeatedly. Aramis grumbled, head still aching from all the wine he and Porthos had drunk last night, and tried to burrow deeper into the warm blankets, but whoever it was just poked him even harder. Finally, he rolled himself all the way into the blanket, yanking it up over his head.

For a moment, he was sure he'd won. Then he heard an aggravated sigh, and suddenly his blanket was ripped away.

Yelping, he nearly fell from the bed, attempting to lash out at whoever had robbed him so ruthlessly, but his arms were unusually weak and he fell back feebly. Glaring around to find his attacker, he met D'Artagnan's sheepish gaze.

Groaning, he buried his face in his pillow, intent on going back to sleep with or without a blanket. What on Earth was the lad doing here so early? Where was Porthos? And why was he so cold?

Then D'Artagnan poked him again.

"What?" he asked at last, opening one eye to glare balefully at the boy.

D'Artagnan was watching him nervously. "I, uh, well… I wanted to thank you," he mumbled at last.

"Can't you thank me by letting me sleep?" Aramis grumbled, wondering what this was all about. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep on top of Porthos and being woken by…

The memory hit him like a tidal wave. He attempted to sit bolt upright in the bed, biting back a cry when every muscle in his arms and shoulders protested violently. Stabbing pains shot across his back and chest, leaving him gasping.

"Fuck," he ground out, driven to swearing by the unexpected pain. He managed to lever himself up with arms that shook pathetically under his own weight and found D'Artagnan watching him worriedly.

"Sorry," he muttered, sounding guilty. "Are you alright?"

Aramis waved off the question, looking the boy over with a practiced eye. Hair a tangled mess, face pale, but all in one piece. At least he'd lost that god-awful hat when he went over. "I'd rather know if you're alright. You weren't conscious when I found you."

D'Artagnan sighed. "I'm fine. I just smacked my head on the cannon, I think, when I went over. I don't remember anything after that until I woke up here and Athos was calling me an idiot."

Aramis chuckled, realizing as he did so that his throat was unbearably dry. D'Artagnan must have noticed, for moments later water was being pushed into his hands. His hands were shaking and his arms were almost too weak to lift the damn thing, but he managed it through a combination of stubbornness and pride.

The boy was watching him miserably when he glanced back again. "Why do you bear an expression remarkably like that of a kicked puppy?" Aramis asked, trying to get him to smile or at least look indignant, but he failed.

"You shouldn't have come after me," D'Artagnan said at last, his voice very low. "You nearly died."

"So did you," Aramis pointed out, puzzled, but the boy shook his head.

"I've been up for hours, Aramis. Apart from a bump to the head and a couple of scratches, I'm fine. Hardly even cold anymore. But you-" he swallowed uneasily. "When I woke up they were changing your bandages, and you looked awful."

Bandages?

Aramis looked down at himself, frowning. Sure enough, the edge of a clean white bandage was visible beneath the neck of his shirt.

Oh.

Right.

"How did that happen?" D'Artagnan asked wretchedly. "You'll have to tell me, because I don't remember any of it and no one else will talk to me."

Aramis hesitated. He didn't want the boy feeling guiltier, and the truth would certainly do that. "Please, Aramis, I need to know," D'Artagnan begged.

He sighed, knowing that he couldn't deny the lad information he'd want in his place. "When I got ahold of you, I managed to grab the netting on the side and tangle us in it tightly enough that I knew we wouldn't be washed away as long as I could keep our heads above water. But the next big wave jammed me up against the side of the ship, and I could feel something sharp scraping my back."

He suppressed a shudder at the memory. Each wave had pushed him under and against the sharp edges of whatever was below the water line of the ship, and it had felt like drowning every time.

His hand sought automatically for his cross, thoughts ready with a prayer of thanks for their survival, but his hand brushed only his shirt and skin. The cross was gone.

The pain of the loss was outweighed by the relief that the tangible proof of his mistake had been washed away. He didn't realize he'd fallen into a reverie until D'Artagnan spoke again.

"How did you know you'd find me?" he asked hesitantly.

"I didn't," Aramis answered honestly, recalling the terror of trying to find anything amid the crashing black waves. The cross was gone, but he sent up the prayer of thanks anyway that God had watched over him.

"I knew if I let go of you, you might get swept away, and I couldn't tell how badly you were already hurt," he went on, pushing the terrifying jumble of images from his mind, "so I twisted around until I was between you and the hull and just held on. After that it's all sort of a blur."

The last bit was a lie. He could remember the waves washing over him and his desperate pleas to God to save them. He could remember crying out for Porthos when he was sure all was lost. Aramis could remember every terrible second of that ordeal until he'd felt someone pulling him free at last.

But D'Artagnan looked stricken as it was, and there was no sense in telling the boy all that.

Though he had answered his own questions about the bandages and the pain in his muscles, neither of which D'Artagnan seemed to have suffered. But then, he'd been unconscious. Aramis was the one who'd been clinging with all his strength to the ropes to keep them both within the netting.

He wondered idly how many fresh scars he now bore. With all the rest, a few more shouldn't bother him, but he couldn't help the trace of bitterness that sprang up at the thought that he was now even more marred.

It must have shown on his face, for D'Artagnan's mouth pressed into an unhappy line. "I'm so sorry, Aramis," he choked out, not meeting his eyes. "This was all my fault. You should have left me to drown."

Despite the weakness in his arms, Aramis's hand shot out, curling into D'Artagnan's shirt. "Don't ever think that," he said fiercely, ignoring his burning muscles as he dragged the boy forward. "I don't regret it for a second, and neither should you. Understood?"

Shame-filled brown eyes met his at last as the boy nodded, looking younger than Aramis had ever seen. He tugged on his shirt until D'Artagnan shuffled close enough for Aramis to wrap him in a hug.

"Thank you," D'Artagnan mumbled against his shoulder, a faint shudder shaking his frame, and Aramis chuckled.

"Think nothing of it," he said with a smile as the boy sat back, looking marginally less traumatized. "Though next time there's a storm, I'm locking you in Athos's cabin."

"With the wine?" D'Artagnan asked, a hint of his usual sly humor entering his tone.

Aramis groaned. "I take it back. I'm locking you in my cabin instead."

Their eyes met and then they were both laughing, the bone deep hilarity that came from a narrow brush with death. Athos must have heard them, for a moment later he appeared in the doorway. Outwardly he looked calm, almost disdainful of their glee, but Aramis could see from the way his shoulders relaxed when he saw him that he was relieved.

"D'Artagnan," he drawled, fixing a pointed stare on the boy that had the laughter feeling his face at once. "If the pair of you are well enough to be laughing, then you are well enough to be told off. Kindly go fetch Porthos."

D'Artagnan paled but rose to do as Athos said. Aramis frowned, realizing that Porthos had not merely stepped away for a moment. It was obvious he had not been in for some time.

He must be furious.

Athos took one step into the room as D'Artagnan passed and hesitated there. Despite his outward composure, Aramis could sense the raging sea of emotions beneath the surface. It put the storm to shame.

Meeting his eyes, Aramis casually tipped his head at the chair D'Artagnan had just vacated, and Athos sat stiffly.

"Athos," he began, but Athos immediately shook his head, glaring at him.

"Don't. I don't want to hear that it wasn't my fault. If I live to be a hundred I will never forgive myself for not going after you."

Aramis was silent for a moment, thinking. "If you had done that," he said after a while. "Then I would not have forgiven you in a hundred years."

Athos's eyes flashed up to meet his, narrowing as he tried to decide if Aramis was being serious. "Athos, for both of us to risk our lives would have been senseless. Besides, you're a poor swimmer. If you had followed, I don't know that you would have been able to cope on your own, and there is no way I could have saved you both."

Athos said nothing, but his hard expression relaxed ever so slightly. Ignoring the protests from his creaming muscles, Aramis reached out and clasped a hand to Athos's shoulder, and the older Musketeer covered it with his own.

That what how D'Artagnan found them when he scurried back into the room. "He's coming," he hissed, darting around Athos to stand in his shadow. Aramis swung his legs to the floor, ignoring Athos's death glare, and rose to his feet moments before Porthos stalked in.

One look and he knew they were in trouble. He'd never seen Porthos so tense. Fury was rolling off him in waves.

"You're lucky I don't toss you all in the brig," he shouted, casting an eye over all three of them. To his shame, Aramis couldn't bring himself to hold his gaze. "Not one of you has an ounce of sense."

He turned to D'Artagnan. "What the hell were you thinking?" he roared at the boy, who abandoned all pretense of pride and cowered behind Athos. "I knew you were an idiot, but that was new even for you! I thought you'd have more sense than to cut the only thing holding you onto the ship in the middle of a fuckin' storm!"

He stepped further into the room, eyes now roving over to Athos. "You," he snarled, jamming a finger at the older Musketeer. "Why didn't you stop him, huh? You know he's an idiot and you still let him go diving after a fuckin' cannon. No gun is worth a man's life!"

Athos stood steady in the face of Porthos's fury, and Aramis knew it was because there was nothing Porthos could say to him that he hadn't already said to himself.

"And you," Porthos hissed, turning at last to Aramis, who fought the desire to step back in the face of his lover's wrath. "What did you think you were doin'? You don't ever jump off a ship in a storm, for any reason. Losin' one is bad enough, but losin' two is unacceptable!"

D'Artagnan seemed to have found his courage, for he asked incredulously, "Would you rather he had let me die?"

For one burning moment, Porthos glared at him, and then his whole body shuddered as his shoulders sagged.

"Course not," he said hoarsely, and then he was yanking Aramis in with one hand and D'Artagnan with the other, crushing them together with enough force to knock the wind from Aramis's lungs, but he didn't care, not in the slightest, not when he could finally anchor himself to the warmth of Porthos's chest.

D'Artagnan's eyes were closed as he sighed heavily, relief written in every line of his body. Aramis turned slightly to see Athos standing away from them, guilt still a cloud over his face, as if he wasn't sure he deserved to be a part of this.

Porthos didn't move his arms from his and D'Artagnan's shoulders, but he jerked his head towards them and growled, "Get over 'ere, idiot."

Athos snorted in surprised amusement but did as instructed, muttering something about sea-salt and wine; but his guilt eased when D'Artagnan's arm sneaked out to drag him into their huddle.

"And I lost my hat," D'Artagnan muttered, as if as an afterthought. Porthos snorted, and even Athos cracked a smile, clearly pleased the ridiculous hat had gone to a watery grave.

Aramis smiled weakly and buried his face against Porthos's neck. He took a long, shuddering breath as he let the horror of the day wash over him, safe in the press of bodies.

They stayed like that for a long time.