Disclaimer: not my characters.

Summary: April of 1625 had been one of the hardest months of Porthos' life. But in a strange way, it had probably been one of the best as well.

Savoy-centric origin story, in which Aramis is grieving, Porthos is a saint, and Athos just kind of shows up, eventually.

Winter, Late in Leaving

Chapter Six

"Vegetables," Aramis sneered, sliding onto the stool beside Porthos. His first day of regular duty was coming to a close; Treville had reinstated him that morning, exactly three weeks after their return to Paris.

And them man looked ready for it. He had gained back his lost weight, made up for lost sleep, and no longer carried himself like an animal about to bolt. His hair and beard were growing back as well. The beard came in with the addition of a few sparse greys that nobody mentioned, but it made him look the part of a musketeer once more.

His hair, on the other hand, was an unholy mess, not yet long enough to weigh itself down. Though April was ending, the rains were still fully upon them, and the errant downpours and constant dampness in the air only added to the disaster of Aramis' curls.

Porthos found it unfortunately endearing.

"Vegetables," Aramis repeated, a bit more urgently, gesturing at his stew and awaiting a response.

"Mm. Yeah?"

"I don't like them. Serge seems to be joining the vegetable movement, and I for one do not appreciate it."

"I like vegetables."

"They taste like dirt."

"They're earthy."

"Like dirt," Aramis repeated. He began picking the carrots from his bowl and depositing them into Porthos' own.

"Suit yourself," Porthos consented, eating them eagerly. Aramis huffed, and leaned a little to the side, so that their shoulders bumped against each other. Porthos slung a heavy arm around him.

"Treville officially decommissioned Marsac today," Aramis said suddenly.

His voice was steady, but Porthos tightened his grip up nevertheless and swallowed his carrots. "That wasn't a done deal?"

Aramis shrugged. "Paperwork, I suppose." He stabbed absently at his vegetable-free stew. "I wonder about him. About where he's got to."

"You can't be angry with yourself for that."

"I'm not. I don't even want to be angry with him, anymore."

"Then don't be."

Aramis smiled sadly. "You make it sound easy, while you still bear a grudge against a barkeep who told you not to laugh so loud."

"That man was out of line."

"He could have left me in the clearing," Aramis mused, sinking a bit deeper into Porthos' hold. "Could have left me in the night. But he didn't. He pulled me away from the fighting. He bandaged my head and he stayed with me until morning. Why? Why do that and then abandon me anyway?"

"Wish I could tell you," Porthos murmured.

"There was nothing for him to be ashamed of. There was no winning that fight. If he hadn't gone and hid, he'd have died, and I'd have died with him!"

"Then it seems to me," Porthos said softly, "that- no matter what else he did- he saved your life, Aramis."

Aramis was silent, and still, for a good long time. Then at last he nodded, and two tears ran abruptly down his cheeks.

It wasn't the last time that Porthos would see him weep. But it was the last time that those tears would be for Savoy, for Marsac.

Porthos rose from his seat, clapped Aramis on the back. "Time for a drink," he commanded. Aramis wiped his eyes and smiled.

The friendship of Porthos and Aramis had begun with a massacre. Their friendship with Athos began in a tavern brawl. They were just uncorking their third bottle of wine when an uproar began on the other side of the room; Porthos paid it little mind, until Aramis pointed at it, his eyebrows raised.

"Isn't that Petit?"

Porthos squinted into the midst of the chaos, and found the familiar face just in time for it to take a hit to the jaw. "He ain't doin' so well," he observed.

"Are we going to help?"

"Sure. Haven't been punched in a while." And so, wine abandoned, Porthos and Aramis dove into the brawl.

No one seemed to care who they were hitting, which worked to their advantage. The fight continued, providing a useful distraction, as they surrounded their fellow musketeer and pulled him out into the street.

Athos was well and truly drunk. He sank to his knees on the rain-slick cobblestones and gasped for air; his hands bled freely into the puddles below them.

Aramis stared at Porthos, who stared right back at him. They hadn't quite thought about what they'd do with the man once they'd gotten him out of the tavern.

"Eh," Porthos began, rubbing his forehead as though it would help. "D'you want some water or something?"

"No, thank you." Even intoxication of this magnitude could not hide the clipped, well-educated mannerisms of Athos' speech. Somehow it made his voice sound even smaller.

Aramis had dropped down beside the man and was checking over his wounds. "None of these will require the needle," he said at last. "Do you think you can stand?" Athos nodded, and miraculously he could. "Did you start that?" Aramis asked, once Athos had his legs underneath him.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Athos said nothing.

"Sometimes you just wanna get hit, eh?" Porthos prompted, gently.

Athos lifted his face to take in Porthos' own. His eyes were wet- maybe from pain, maybe from drink, or maybe from something else entirely. "Do not presume to know me," he said coldly.

"You sayin' I'm wrong?"

Pressing his lips together, Athos hand flexed out for his sword, then tightened into a fist when he found it absent. "Whoa, hey!" Aramis cried, throwing his arms up between them. "Take it easy, Athos. He's only trying to help."

"I didn't ask him to."

"He can't help it," Aramis insisted. "Porthos has a bit of a soft spot for stray dogs."

"I do not!" Porthos yelped, at the same time Athos growled, "I am not!" Aramis chuckled and, with a meaningful glance at Porthos, mimed plucking at the center of his chest.

Athos did not miss the exchange. Despite his drunken choler, his curiosity seemed piqued, and he gestured at Porthos. "Do you wear a identification card, monsieur dog rescuer?"

"Of sorts," Porthos grunted, and fished his medallion out for Athos to see.

"Hm," the man snorted, clutching at something around his own neck. "Jude de Jacques. A dog I am not, but I may indeed fall under his jurisdiction."

"What happened?"

"There was a woman." New tears came to Athos' eyes, but once again he held them back. "I loved her."

"She didn't love you in return?" It was Aramis' turn to question.

"She did. But she is dead." Athos shut his eyes, then after a moment covered them with his hands.

He said no more; they led him home.

Seated at breakfast the next day, Porthos found himself drifting; it felt as though a mere hour or two had passed between seeing Athos back to his apartment and rising to report on time. Aramis, sitting across from him, fared much better on late nights. He was cheerfully gobbling his meal, chatting at Porthos between bites about- eh. Something or other. At least he wasn't kicking him under the table to keep him awake. Though that might come soon.

So Porthos was briefly confused when his friend stopped talking. He raised his head from his hands at the unexpected silence, just in time to see their new arrival.

Athos slid neatly onto the stool beside Aramis. His eyes were bloodshot with drink and fatigue; the bruise on his jaw was clearly visible beneath his pale beard. Nevertheless his expression was composed. He carried with him a cup of water and a plate containing no more than a breakfast roll. Carefully, he set them down.

Aramis had gone still, as though Athos were a creature not to be startled; moving no more than his eyes, he glanced over at Porthos. Porthos shrugged, and waited.

Athos was clearly aware of the attention- how could he not be?- but made a show of breaking open his roll and nibbling at it before responding in any way. Then, at last, he raised his head and opened his mouth with a sigh.

"Woof," Athos said. His voice was drier than leaves in winter.

Aramis burst out laughing. He clapped Athos on the back in approval; Porthos felt himself grinning as well, caught up in some strange and sudden joy. A tiny, unsteady smile broke out on Athos face. He slumped a bit, leaning into Aramis' hand and giving over to the exhaustion that he'd clearly been resisting.

Aramis moved his arm up until it was slung about Athos' shoulders. He promptly resumed his babbling, either unaware or uncaring that he now had two listeners not following him in the slightest. More awake now, Porthos turned to his food. He began to eat, but not before slipping a slice of ham onto Athos' plate with a meaningful frown.

It wasn't raining, for the first time in days. They had time to spare after eating, and so Aramis dragged them on a walk- "because you need to wake up, and you need to sober up," he clarified, pointedly. Porthos grumbled, but in the end was glad of it. There was some sort of happy hubbub in the city: garlands were being hung, poles were being raised, and lines at the bakeries spilled from their doors.

Porthos yawned deeply. "'s something goin' on today?"

Aramis glowered."Have you literally not listened to a word I've said all morning?"

"Eh, no," Porthos told him honestly. Beneath his exhaustion, Athos had the decency to look fairly mortified at his own inattention.

"You," Aramis assured Athos, tucking an arm around his shoulders again, "are hungover and also not used to me yet. You're granted clemency- this time. But you," he continued, rounding on Porthos, "next time you lose track of the turning of the year, don't come sniveling to me."

"What are you on about?" Porthos moaned, secretly delighted at Aramis' implication that he should have known better by now.

"It's the first of May. It's Beltane!" Aramis cried cheerfully. "Flowers! Wine! Girls! With more flowers, in their hair. Bells ringing to keep the witches away and fat old priests shaking in their boots at the though of heathen blood still within us." One arm was still around Athos' shoulders, and Aramis linked the other through Porthos' own.

"And new beginnings," he added, the words like wind between his smiling teeth.

Now that it had ended, Porthos mused, it was safe to say: April of 1625 had been one of the hardest months of his life. He had spent it sleep-deprived, worried out of his skull for a man he'd just met, and mourning quietly, deep inside him, for the loss of twenty good men. The repercussions of April, of Savoy, would never completely fade.

But, he thought, as Paris erupted with color and joy in honor of May, April hadn't been bad. Difficult did not mean bad. He was emerging from the trials of the month with a friend dearer to him than he'd let himself hope for- possibly two, in fact. And so in a strange way, April had been wonderful. Probably one of the best months of Porthos' life.

As though in apology for the long, snowy winter, May was all at once rainless, cheerful. It slipped easily into summer. And in the same manner, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos slipped easily into each other's company, as though there had always been three.

Out of habit, Porthos found himself still watching Aramis for signs of sadness, all too aware of how it could surface unexpectedly. Aramis, though, hardly missed a step. Besides, he had a new identity now: no longer was he the lone survivor of Savoy. No longer was Athos the petit capitaine, either. And no longer was Porthos the child of the Court, the street rat who could make a thousand friends and yet never quite belong.

In fact, they barely had names anymore, let alone sobriquets.

By the time summer arrived, they were simply, collectively, Les Inséparables.

Notes: Thank you sincerely to all who read and reviewed. This was the first chapterfic I've done in a looong time. The positive responses have meant a lot to me :)

Anyway... Athos! I feel quite badly that he didn't end up being in this story nearly as much as I'd originally intended. Nevertheless, I really like the idea of Porthos and Aramis kind of forcefully adopting him, after they themselves were already friends. (And Athos himself tries not to give a crap about their friendship, but in the end he's so lonely that he goes out on a limb or the first time in forever and accepts it, and he's nervous and beyond shy but they seem so genuinely willing to tolerate him that it actually gives him hope and gah I love Athos so much.) Keep in mind also that this story takes place within a year of Milady's "death".

I have another story in mind, set closely after this one and featuring Athos more heavily. But given that the school year is about to begin, I'm not quite sure when I'll get around to it. I also, eventually, want to write something with d'Artagnan!

Historical notes... at roughly the time that this story takes place, vegetables were indeed just beginning to find their way into the mainstream French diet. Previously, they had been considered peasant food; Porthos, therefore, may have been more used to them than Aramis.

Jude de Jacques= French name for St. Jude.