A/N: Warning for potential Series 2 spoilers (from what I've read through interviews and such) but since this will become AU in a matter of days… I'm not sure it matters terribly much.

The Confession

-o-

The barn was old and decrepit, but the bottle of wine they passed between them was the most expensive Porthos had ever tasted. Tawny and sweet, with a hint of berry and some spice he couldn't name. He let it linger on his lips and closed his eyes as he swallowed. "Not bad, far as tokens of appreciation go," he mumbled, savoring the flavor as he passed the bottle off to Athos.

"A further token of appreciation would have been to offer us accommodations in his summer estate back in Bourges. He knew we'd be traveling through there."

Expecting their third to have something to say to that, Porthos waited until Athos had the bottle tipped backwards for a long pull then nudged Aramis in the shoulder. "Still. Hay's clean," he prodded. "Meanwhile we've got a whole bloody case of the best wine I've ever tasted. We've had worse times of it, that's certain. Our young d'Artagnan will curse himself for not being here."

Finishing his swallow, Athos passed the bottle back, granting a semi-affirmative sound.

Still, Aramis said nothing. Sitting between them, staring at his knees—eyes a million leagues away by the look of them. They'd passed the bottle twice right over his lap and he hadn't made even a halfhearted grab for it.

Glancing over his head, Porthos exchanged a long look with Athos, who—tellingly—looked away first.

Setting the wine on the rough floorboard, Porthos fidgeted with it a moment, rotating it by fractions while Athos said nothing. Tapping his fingers to the smooth glass and catching his thumb in a divot the glass blower had missed, he took a long and quiet breath through his teeth.

The three of them had never depended much on words. Theirs was more a language of familiarity and muted expressions, huddled behind safe veneers of calm, because even at their most stoic, the others usually knew when one was screaming inside.

Tipping and steadying the bottle incrementally, Porthos finally slid it a few centimeters distant, resting it on the wood near his knee as he prepared to speak. "It's enough now, Athos," he murmured, talking to the empty air in front of him in lieu of turning his head. "Whatever the two of you have been holding onto, it's time you told me."

Between them—displaying the first signs of life in what felt like hours—Aramis flinched.

Over his head, Porthos caught Athos's eye again. This time, Athos didn't look away. The mix of emotion in his impassive face confusing at first. His eyes were cautionary, as though warning Porthos away from trouble; and protective, if the aborted motion of his hand towards Aramis's arm was anything to go by. Like if he could just keep Aramis in his grip, he'd be able to keep him from harm.

"I know you've got your reasons," Porthos continued. "You always do. Even when Milady de Winter turned up at Ninon's trial and you didn't want to talk about it, I always trusted that you'd tell us what we needed to know about her if ever it was necessary, and you did. Now this… whatever it is you've been holding between you. It's enough. He's not handling it. It's time."

"This is not Athos's doing," Aramis interjected softly, voice raspy from being silent all day. Digging knuckles into his eyes as though to wake himself up to this, he gave a small shiver. A minor tremble that continued until Athos's hand settled on back of his neck.

"We both held the secret," Athos said.

Aramis looked up at him then, staring quietly before turning his face to Porthos, eyes as dark as Porthos had ever seen them. "It's… dangerous," Aramis faltered, though it was clear he was trying not to.

"'m not a delicate flower."

Eyebrows lowering, Aramis held his gaze fast. "This need not be your burden."

"Oi—since when has our brotherhood ever been a burden?"

Aramis looked away as his eyes flickered. "Since now, if you continue to pursue this."

Clenching his teeth, Porthos glanced at Athos's unflinching expression then pressed his palm to Aramis's wrist. "I don't believe that."

"You should. This will bring you nothing good. It isn't something you need to know."

"You need me to know," Porthos returned, just as serious.

Aramis sucked in a breath and closed his eyes, dropping his chin to his chest. "Which is why I shouldn't tell you," he murmured, speaking inward—to the floorboards and the dusty air.

Porthos let a growl escape through his teeth and put a palm to Aramis's jaw, forcing him to turn his head. "Rubbish," he insisted. "I choose. I choose. Now, tell me."

A long moment passed, thick with indecision.

Gently freeing himself form Porthos's palm, Aramis rolled his head then knocked it back, banging it against the wallboards with a sigh. A heavy silence followed as he stared at his knees and worked his mouth open. Porthos inhaled patiently, feeling the weight of Athos's gaze in the ensuing stillness.

"The dauphin," Aramis said flatly, then waited, avoiding eye contact.

It didn't take long. Porthos felt the realization flood through him, like blood to the surface of his skin, rushing so fast he felt his ears prickle. He darted a quick glance at Athos to mark the confirmation in his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nose. "You and the queen," he breathed.

Staring away, Aramis nodded slowly, rigid and braced. Porthos was not entirely sure what he was expecting—violence? Abandonment? He watched him and thought perhaps Aramis himself didn't even know.

Exhaling again and moving at a slow, deliberate pace, Porthos lifted an arm and wrapped it around Aramis's shoulders, some strange mixture of fear and relief settling low in his gut. Gently and with precision, he kissed Aramis's temple. "Doesn't get any thicker than that then, does it?" he mumbled softly.

Aramis had gone quiet, but Porthos could feel the way his eyes closed.

Unobtrusively, Athos cleared his throat. "It was at the convent," he explained. "And it is only a possibility. There were circumstances. Aramis lost—"

"Don't, Athos," Aramis cut in, rubbing at his eyes again. His arm jerked into Porthos's ribs. "He'll make it sound…" breaking off, he sniffed deeply, and began again. "Though I didn't intend… it was… I was... We…"

"Shh." Porthos squeezed his shoulder to head him off. "Not looking for explanations just now."

"Perhaps you ought."

He squeezed again. "Stop telling me what I ought."

"There is no reason anyone outside the three of us should or would know this," Athos spoke up. "Any who would make such an accusation would risk a great deal even with the best of evidence. More than could be gained by pursuing it, even by those who would be our enemies."

"The cardinal, you mean," said Aramis. "He has always been shrewd, Athos, and more vicious than I ever recognized."

"Perhaps, but he is no fool. He needs the queen on his side. His position remains precarious, and he wishes to avoid war with Spain as much as anyone. Beyond anything, he knows France needs an heir."

Aramis grimaced, shrugging into Porthos's arm. "And the last thing this country needs is another Tour de Nesle affair," he said dully.

Athos leaned forward. "That may well work to our advantage. The populous was more than displeased with how their monarch handled that situation, to say nothing of the fact that the accuser was a queen hiding a relationship with her own lover, while plotting to kill her own husband."

"All of which may only make a monarch more discreet, not less cruel," refuted Aramis. "And he would not be entirely unjustified."

Athos's jaw ticked neatly as he looked at Porthos then back at Aramis. "We would never let you hang."

"Even if I deserve it?"

That cracked Porthos's composure, his fingers digging into Aramis's shoulder despite himself.

Athos twitched darkly. "You don't." Reaching over Aramis's legs, he snagged the bottle from where Porthos had left it and slung it up to his lips.

"Don't I?" It emerged quick and vicious, Aramis tensing all over again. Pressing forward Porthos expected to see Aramis's eyes spark with challenge, but when he looked, his brother's gaze was turned inward.

"No," Athos refuted simply. "No more than I at any rate."

"Stop saying that," said Aramis.

Not replying, Athos handed him the bottle. Aramis took it, finally dragging his own long swallow. When he finished, his eyes finally found Porthos's, emitting shades of gratitude and fear. Pointedly, he held out the bottle.

Porthos took it, feeling its weight in a new context. "Must be lonely being the queen," he mused, not entirely sure what he meant by it.

Aramis stared at him. A long pause following in which Aramis dragged fingers through his hair. "You'd have every right," he began.

"No." Porthos stopped him, fingers clenching the glass. "I choose. You'll come to me with this now." He tipped the bottle at Athos. "Both of us. I said it was enough, and I meant it. Every time you carry something off on your own shoulders, it gets you worse than before. You'll let us help you now. You'll let us. Understand?"

Achingly, Aramis nodded.

Taking another long swallow, Porthos eased back into the wall.

Slowly, Aramis leaned with him.

-o-

Fin

-o-

Quickly written and not the greatest, but I had to get it out there before Series 2 started.