Summary: "I failed in my duty as a Musketeer. But worse, I failed in my duty as your friend."

Events after Season 2 and beyond.

Author's Notes: This takes place after Season 2. So, so many spoilers.

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

Thanks for all the birthday wishes!

And to everyone who stuck with what I thought was going to be a three chapter fic at most!

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Cold.

It was the first thing he felt.

An all-encompassing chill that rolled through him with a shudder.

He was sore.

He hurt.

Every muscle, every bit of flesh.

He shifted against the ache and it was all eclipsed by a sharp, bright star of pain in his leg.

Porthos forced his eyes open.

A mess of dark, wavy hair bent over his leg. Careful fingers were wrapping a bandage.

It looked like Aramis.

It felt like Aramis.

But Aramis shouldn't be...

Porthos frowned.

Aramis wasn't here, but he couldn't remember why.

He was so muddled.

Porthos groaned and arched away as the bandage tightening.

Aramis glanced up at Porthos and then again, clearly surprised to see him awake.

"Porthos?" he asked softly. "You with me?" Porthos only managed a raspy grunt.

Cool hands lifted him up and a cup of liquid was held to his lips. Porthos recognized the musty scent of valeria tea. He slowly drained the cup.

"How do you feel?"

"'S cold."

"No, it isn't, you're just very warm," said Aramis with a frown.

The pulsing pain in his leg and the way every single bit of him felt raw.

"Fever." Aramis nodded. Porthos looked at him hard. "You real?"

Aramis' face crumpled, but it smoothed into a smile.

"I am." He pulled a thin blanket up to Porthos' chest and rested a hand there, a light pressure. "I'm real. I'm here."

"Thought maybe I dreamt you," admitted Porthos.

"I am rather dreamy."

Porthos breathed out a laugh that hitched. Stupid fever, made him a sentimental sop. He squeezed his tearing eyes shut and turned his face away.

Gentle fingers framed his jaw and urged him back toward Aramis, who was kneeling so close and looking at him earnestly.

"I'm sorry, Porthos. For everything I did and everything I should have. I'm sorry I wasn't here." He wiped away the tears at Porthos' temples. "But I'm here now. I am here with you."

Porthos nodded once and relaxed into Aramis' touch. Knowing fingers traced his face and ran through his hair.

The throb of pain faded.

His eyes kept closing, but Porthos' fought to stay awake.

"Stop that," whispered Aramis. "I'm not going anywhere. I will be here when you wake up." Feather-light touches over his eyelids. "Sleep. Everything is alright."

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When Porthos awoke next, the tent was bright with sunlight.

His leg hurt, but it wasn't the agony he remember from...

Aramis.

Porthos struggled to sit up, to look around, to know it hadn't all been in his head.

"Easy, Porthos." A firm hand gripped his shoulder and pushed him back down. Aramis leaned over, studying him. "Easy." Porthos fell back, relief making his weak muscles nearly useless.

"'M alright," he murmured, trying to dispel the concern on Aramis' face. "Just...checkin'." Aramis made a sound of understanding and pressed a hand to Porthos' face.

"Fever seems to have gone down. How do you feel?"

"Better." Aramis sighed and sat down.

"Good. Are you hungry at all? You haven't eaten in days."

"Maybe later." Porthos let his eyes roam over his friend. He looked tired and his beard was a little sparse, but he looked like himself. Like Aramis. "When's the last time you ate?"

"I'll have you know that Athos and d'Artagnan bullied me into a meal quite recently."

"They okay?"

"They're fine." Porthos narrowed his eyes. "They are," insisted Aramis. "Just worried about you."

Porthos felt like he knew more than he could remember, but Aramis being next to him was puzzling.

"What brought you back?" Aramis leaned back on the stool and studied the ceiling of the tent.

"I want to say," he began, "that it was because I finally knew my heart. Finally understood that what I needed was to be a Musketeer. But all I truly understood was that I needed to leave. I needed to be here in a way I could not, cannot, explain. It was like I was compelled." He looked down at his folded hands. "When I arrived, you'd been missing for three days. Athos let me search for you."

"Tracking ain't your strong suite," mused Porthos.

"Thank you for that vote of confidence, but you're right, it isn't." Aramis picked at the blanket and was silent for a long moment. "But you don't need to be good when you are led by God."

Porthos absorbed that and kept the doubt out of his voice.

"You think God led you to me?"

"Looking back on it, I shouldn't have found you. The tracks were old, the terrain rough, you were so well hidden...I'd lost hope. I convinced myself all I was going to find was blood and dust." Aramis looked at him tentatively. "I was coming back to camp, trying to figure out how I was going to tell Athos I had failed, when my horse spooked. And then I saw the little cave, masked by bushes. And I discovered you, wounded and burning up with fever."

"I remember the cave," Porthos frowned and tried to recall. "I think I remember you being there...sharin' a horse?" He let out a frustrated breath. "It's all mush." Porthos looked at Aramis. "So, other than divine intervention, which I am not dismissin', you don't know why you came back?"

"The provincial at the abbey said something to me. He said that 'the glory of God is man fully alive'. I'm a soldier and I don't know how to be anything else. I love the fight. The danger." Porthos smiled and to his delight Aramis returned it. "My life is here. I just have to be better at it. My duty lies with France. The King and his Musketeers."

"What about the Queen? The dauphin?" asked Porthos hesitantly.

"I will protect them. But as a Musketeer, not as a lover and a father. I can't be family to them."

"I'm sorry you can't have that."

"I have a family," declared Aramis. He reached up and took off the necklace around his neck. He slipped it over Porthos' head and laid the charms against his chest. "I may have forgotten, but I remember now." He looked at Porthos and smiled again. "I remember now."

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Athos looked up from his papers as Aramis walked into his tent. He knew from the way Aramis carried himself what the news was before he even spoke.

"How is he?"

"Awake and coherent. Out of danger, I believe." Athos let his head fall forward for a moment.

"I'm glad to hear it. His leg?"

"A long way from fit, but there is no more sign of infection and it's knitting."

"Good. Get a meal and then we'll get you quartered."

"Athos-"

"You cannot live in the infirmary, Aramis. Delon has put up with you quite long enough."

"That man does not understand us," objected Aramis. "How many wounded men would benefit from a friendly face or hand only to be sequestered by that, that...tyrant?" Athos sighed.

"That does not change the fact we need to get you properly settled. Porthos will be fine. You said so yourself. But," continued Athos, overriding whatever Aramis tried to say, "I will have a word with Delon." He frowned at Aramis. "I thought you were going to be a model soldier?" Aramis stopped, confused until he remembered the promise.

"That was only if I didn't find Porthos," replied Aramis with a charming grin. "So sorry, Captain."

There you are.

The cocksure rogue that Athos feared had been beaten out of Aramis by the loss of things he'd never truly had. He allowed himself the smallest smile.

"I'm glad your back."

"Me too," said Aramis and Athos knew he meant it. "Me too."

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You will hear of wars and rumors of wars; see that you are not alarmed, for this is something that must happen, but the end will not be yet. -Matthew 24.6

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