Summary: Athos and Aramis were like ice and fire and battered ruthlessly against each other.

Author's Notes:

This is the result of a line in Amynion's great story "All is Well (It's Only Blood), and a discussion that was had on Tumblr about the idea of Athos and Aramis being too alike and yet too different and how they need Porthos to balance them.

It's an idea that I have been pondering for a good long while and finally decided to work with.

And work and work and work...I'm not very pleased with this story, but I've fiddled with it enough.

Takes place between Season 1 and Season 2.

I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

Yet, I'm better near to you.
I only know that I am
better where you are.
– "Near to You", A Fine Frenzy

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The sun had yet to present itself when d'Artagnan saw Porthos making his way to the stables.

"And where are you off to so early this morning?" asked d'Artagnan, leaning against a stall.

"Montepllier. To deliver some official missives and what not. Some replies we are to wait for. Things been rough down there, ever since the siege."

"I know," said d'Artagnan. "It is not so far from Lupiac." Porthos nodded and kept checking his tack. "Who's to go with you?"

"Leclair and Segal. I expect we'll be back in three weeks at most."

D'Artagnan couldn't help but frown. Athos, Porthos, Aramis and himself did not always have the same shifts or tasks. But never could d'Artagnan remember one of them being sent on a mission for so long without one of the others. It just did not seem right.

Porthos nudged him with a knowing grin.

"Ain't nothin' to worry about, such is the life of a soldier. Just don't have too much fun without me, eh?"

"I make no promises. You know how fun finds us."

Porthos gathered his reins and looked across the courtyard where Athos and Aramis had appeared and were waiting to see him off. He looked concerned.

"Porthos?" asked d'Artagnan.

"Just..." Porthos pursed his lips and finally shook his head. "Just take care of 'em for me?"

"Of course," said d'Artagnan quickly. The big man led Bourbon toward the gate and his waiting friends, the look wiped from his face.

D'Artagnan watched, uncertain of what Porthos was really asking him to do.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Days past, filled with tasks and training and a great deal of hurry up and wait.

Athos, Aramis, and he had been on parade duty at the palace and stopped at an inn for some food before carrying on to the garrison.

D'Artagnan barely noted Aramis flirting shamelessly with the barmaid until Athos cleared his throat.

"If you could find the time, mademoiselle, another bottle of wine?" The young woman blushed scarlet and hurried away.

"My apologies for fraternizing with the help," muttered Aramis, studying Athos like a target. "I know how servants make you uncomfortable."

D'Artagnan froze with a piece of bread halfway to his mouth.

The tavern went on, but around their table, it was like all the air had been sucked away.

After a painful moment, Aramis closed his eyes and when he opened them, he halfheartedly held his hand up to Athos. Athos' eyebrow twitched and he tilted his head slightly and went back to his cup.

D'Artagnan barely dared breathe during this odd exchange. He'd grown used to conversations without words, silent discussions and acquiescence. He even felt he was becoming versed in them.

But this was unsettling.

It was almost as though Aramis was looking for a fight. For no reason at all.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Aramis."

Aramis was lost in thought, eyes unfocused.

"Aramis!" tried d'Artagnan again. The older Musketeer startled and looked at him. "It's your turn." D'Artagnan motioned to the shooting target. Aramis nodded and took his shot.

D'Artagnan stared at the target at the end of the courtyard. He looked at Aramis and then back at the target.

And then at Aramis again.

"Despite what you may believe, I am not a magician. I do miss, on occasion," said Aramis. He said it with a laugh, but there was darkness in it.

"Are you sure nothing is the matter?"

"Why would anything be the matter?" snapped Aramis, taking his musket to the table and began to clean it viciously.

"No reason at all," whispered d'Artagnan to the sky.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Messy.

Athos' defense was messy and unfocused and d'Artagnan still couldn't land a hit. But he had definitely noticed a difference.

"What's on your mind, Athos?"

"What do you mean?" D'Artagnan dropped his guard to fix Athos with a look.

"Your thoughts are not on sparring."

"Has it not been challenging enough?" asked Athos flatly.

"That's not it," grimaced d'Artagnan. "You're thinking about something else."

"Perhaps," agreed Athos. "How frustrating for you that I can do two things at once."

There was no hint of a teasing grin. And d'Artagnan realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Athos smile.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"You had no right!"

D'Artagnan whipped around to see Aramis storming down the stairs from Treville's office, eyes blazing and fixed on Athos.

"I was rather under the impression keeping you alive was a worth while endeavor." Athos said coolly. "Perhaps I was mistaken."

"Trying to save your own skin, more like."

"Who's fault is that?"

D'Artagnan looked between his two friends, baffled. What had brought this on? What were they even talking about?

"Nothing is going to happen!" shouted Aramis.

"You hope something will, else you wouldn't desire it so much. But please, do carry on." Athos gestured to the open courtyard and a half dozen Musketeers trying not to look like they were listening. "After all, what could possibly happen? Treason?"

Aramis flinched.

"It's not like you are endangering your comrades," continued Athos, very quietly. "Or lying to your friends."

There was a beat and then Aramis smiled and it smoldered. He moved in close to Athos. D'Artagnan was standing before he realized he'd done it.

"You would know all about that, Comte," hissed Aramis. "Lies of omission are still lies, no matter how noble the tongue."

D'Artagnan watched in horror as their hands went to their swords.

"Stop!" he commanded, forcing himself between them. "Do you see yourselves right now? Do you?"

Aramis made a sound filled with disgusted rage and stalked from the garrison without looking back. Athos hadn't moved a muscle.

D'Artagnan turned to his friend and searched his implacable face.

"Athos?" he began softly. "What is going on with you two?" Athos flicked cold eyes in his direction, but said nothing. "Playful teasing is one thing," continued d'Artagnan, trying to keep the pleading from his voice. "But this? Swords? Over something I know nothing about? Tell me what's wrong!"

Athos slowly relaxed and heaved a deep breath.

"My apologies, d'Artagnan. I appreciate your concern, but there's nothing to be done."

"Why won't you let me help?" He thought they were past this. That Athos trusted him.

"It cannot be changed." Athos lifted his hands in a helpless gesture that looked utterly wrong on the poised, controlled Musketeer. "We are who we are. But I hope you'll never have to see that again."

With a brief nod, Athos climbed the stairs to Treville's office and left d'Artagnan staring after him.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

D'Artagnan waited for her in the market. He knew Constance did her shopping on this day and he needed to see a friendly face. One that, hopefully, wouldn't start a fight with him.

"Madame Bonacieux." She looked up at him dark, cautious eyes.

"Monsieur."

So formal.

He ignored the way his chest clenched and forced himself to go on.

"How are you?"

"Fine, thank you. And yourself? How goes your employment with the Musketeers?"

There must have been something on his face. Constance had stopped perusing the vegetables and looked at d'Artagnan. She was suddenly warmer and studying him closely.

"What's wrong," asked Constance.

"It's Athos and Aramis," sighed d'Artagnan, happy to finally have someone to talk to. "They've been in foul moods. Short tempered."

"What do you mean?"

"For days now, they just pick and pick at each other. Snipping and snapping."

"Sounds pretty normal to me," said Constance lightly.

"Not like this. They keep poking at the things they know will hurt. It's not teasing, it's...cruel."

"They are not cruel men," she said, brow furrowed.

"Not usually," he agreed, shrugging.

"Are they quarreling about something?"

"I don't think so, or nothing that they will admit. I thought they might actually come to blows yesterday. All at once, it is like they just cannot get along."

"They're too alike," sighed Constance as she turned back to her shopping. D'Artagnan huffed a laugh.

"Athos and Aramis? Not hardly."

Constance gave him a narrow-eyed look over her shoulder.

"They are. Never quite sure what they are thinking. All bottled up and tied down, those two. Polite words and pretty smiles, yes, but when are they real?" She shook her head, hair swaying gently. "They both hide an awful lot."

D'Artagnan thought about her description. Athos and Aramis had their secrets and their pasts, but didn't everyone?

But Constance wasn't wrong about how sometimes they both seemed unknowable.

Graceful and polished Aramis with his charming grin that did nothing to soften his words. Words that seemed designed to snap and spark and sting.

Distant and cool Athos with a haughty eyebrow and a flat response, meant to freeze normal men in their tracks, only seemed to goad Aramis on.

We are who we are.

"And where's Porthos in all this?" Constance asked suddenly. "Surely he can help you sort them out."

"He's away on the King's business...has been for over two...weeks..."

He stopped.

Porthos was away. So was his easy laughter, his playful nature.

His grounded presence.

D'Artagnan felt slightly thunderstruck.

Was it that simple?

It was hard to pinpoint exactly when things between Aramis and Athos had gone from sporting to antagonizing, but it had steadily gotten worse.

All in the time Porthos had been gone.

They were all armament in the King's service.

Aramis, the smoldering wick of a musket, easily igniting a flash of hot passion.

Athos, the cold flat of a sword, quickly turned to a cutting edge.

Porthos, a strength that needs no weapon and hands that can disarm either gun or sword.

Those dependable hands had been missed for weeks.

D'Artagnan thought back to that day in the armory. Weapons chosen and loaded and Porthos had held out his hand. They had added their own on top of the firm foundation of his conviction when he had intoned "All for one."

It had seemed right somehow, though he'd never thought more about why.

Why it had been Porthos.

He was the balance. The middle ground. The solid foundation.

"Constance," he breathed. "You're brilliant!" His hands had moved to cup her face before he could stop them. She stepped back quickly and d'Artagnan felt it like a slap. He dropped his clenched fists and bowed quickly, hoping she couldn't see his burning cheeks. "My thanks, madame. Good day."

And he fled the market as quickly as he could.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Athos was good to his word. D'Artagnan didn't see Aramis and Athos at each other's throats again because he didn't see them together.

Rotations and assignments kept the two men apart, whether by design or chance, he didn't know. He tried to utilize his new found insight, but d'Artagnan had no idea how to fill the place that Porthos had left.

Separate, they seemed well enough. Grim and distant or distracted, but less...volatile.

There was an air of anticipation. Of merely passing the time until something happened.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

D'Artagnan stared up at the blue sky from flat on his back and tried to catch his breath. Bedel fought dirtier than Porthos and could throw him nearly as far. Good to know.

A low, rumbling chuckle came from the direction of the gate and d'Artagnan closed his eyes and just smiled.

"Catchin' up on your beauty rest down there?" D'Artagnan looked up to see the looming frame of Porthos smirking above him.

"I've no idea what you mean," he answered. "I was just giving Bedel a chance to collect himself."

Porthos laughed again and picked up d'Artagnan like he was child and set him on his feet.

"Yeah, looked like you had him right where you wanted him."

"Porthos!" They turned at the sound of Aramis' voice. He immediately crossed the yard and wrapped Porthos in a solid hug. "Finally." Aramis pulled back and studied Porthos carefully, head to toe.

Now that d'Artagnan was right side up and paying attention, he could see the big man was dusty and exhausted, but his smile was easy and brilliant.

"I'm alright," answered Porthos to the question Aramis hadn't even voiced, but had asked, all the same.

The scrutiny lasted a bit longer before Aramis nodded.

"I just got in from the palace, still need to report to the Captain."

"Then best not keep him waiting," said Athos, coming down the stairs from Treville's office. "Leclair and Segal have already gone up."

Athos gripped Porthos' arm as he passed, blue eyes warm.

"It is good to have you back, Porthos."

The smile Athos gave Porthos was small, but it was the first that d'Artagnan could remember from the man in many days.

"'S good to be back."

Porthos climbed the stairs and disappeared into the office.

Athos faced Aramis.

A look passed between them.

It was filled with acknowledgment and regret and fondness and a dozen other things that d'Artagnan wasn't sure he'd ever truly understand.

But there was an agreement made in silence. And they nodded.

D'Artagnan released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Later, after food and reports and baths, friendly stories and sorely missed laughter, after Athos had left for a patrol and Aramis had gone to retrieve another bottle of wine from his room, d'Artagnan sat down across from Porthos.

"Do you know what they're like when you are not here?" asked d'Artagnan quietly.

"What who's like where, now?"

"Athos. Aramis." He saw when Porthos had his meaning.

"Course not. I ain't here to know, am I?" teased Porthos, but he was watching d'Artagnan intently. "What do you mean?"

"Athos and Aramis... they don't...they're not...

D'Artagnan thought through the weeks, the fights, and the distance. How did he even begin to describe what he wasn't even certain he understood? That Athos and Aramis were like ice and fire and battered ruthlessly against each other without Porthos there between them?

That Porthos was the oil to the whetstone that created the sharpest edge.

He steadied the musket for the clearest shot.

Porthos was equilibrium.

"Better," he answered abruptly. Porthos frowned at him, bemused. D'Artagnan cleared his throat and went on. "They're better near to you."

Porthos pondered that for a moment and then he smiled, dark eyes dancing.

"We're brothers. We're all better together, I say."

D'Artagnan didn't return the smile. He did not want to make light of this.

After a moment, Porthos dipped his head thoughtfully.

"I never knew for sure, you understand? They never said anythin'. But when I'd come back from a long mission, or they would, I could feel it." Porthos swirled his cup, eyes down. "Like the air before a storm. Waitin' and all charged up." He looked up at d'Artagnan. "I never knew what I needed to do. To fix it. But it always seemed to right itself soon enough."

"I don't know that you do anything. You ease something between them," reflected d'Artagnan. "You just...are."

D'Artagnan watched his words settle on Porthos and wondered if he'd made a mistake in talking about this. Was it too intimate? Or too heavy a knowledge? The big Musketeer chewed his lip, silent. And then slowly he smiled again.

"Well," said Porthos easily, "if all I have to be is me, then I have little choice but to continue that, eh?" He winked his scarred eye.

D'Artagnan huffed a surprised laugh.

"I certainly hope not. For all our sakes."