A/N: A tag of sorts to S1: episode 4 - The Good Soldier. This is the final one for this series, although I may decide add to it later.

TMTMTM

When the memories of Savoy surfaced with the arrival of Marsac, a wedge of words drove between them.

"When it comes down to it," Porthos had said, "I'd rather be on Treville's side then on Marsac's."

"You may be content to do nothing. I'm not." Aramis replied and he walked away feeling clear in his chest that, for this, he was alone. Nobody leapt after him and he told himself he was ok with that.

When Marsac died by his bullet, Aramis found himself adrift in the rain. He made his peace with Treville, understanding as only a soldier could the shifting pain between duty and brotherhood. But still he was alone. He had chosen one side and it was populated only be the dead – he, the lone survivor. And he wondered if a part of his soul hadn't been left in that wood alongside of Marsac's.

The walk back to his quarters was strange; the exhaustion in his steps filling the role of doubt as he wondered if this was where he truly belonged. He didn't encounter Porthos or Athos in the barracks and his room was empty when he finally reached it. The cold and damp of the space seemed to slide down his throat and collect around his heart. He shucked his wet clothing and collapsed across his bed, more ready for sleep than he had felt in weeks.

He fell asleep and woke up in Savoy.

Three days later and he still hadn't slept through a full night.

Activities in the garrison had returned to normal, the four of them had settled back into each other's company though d'Artagnan was the only one amongst them who didn't see the cracks.

With sleep stretched thin, Aramis's mood darkened and his patience shortened, and those cracks grew in kind until he and Porthos found themselves glaring at each other across the table in a tavern one night. Athos glanced once between them and grabbed d'Artagnan by the shoulder to force the boy to his feet.

"I need some fresh air," he muttered and d'Artagnan turned to him in concern, following behind without question.

The sudden departure of their comrades didn't alter the nature of their glaring, nor did it loosen their tongues, and they sat like that for a long string of moments.

"Aramis, you've got to let it go," Porthos finally said.

"Let what go, exactly?" Aramis cut in, "Savoy? Marsac? Treville's involvement? Or the fact that you left me to deal with it on my own."

"Marsac was no longer the man you knew. You can't ask me to choose between a man like Treville and what Marsac had become. The answer would still be the same."

"This isn't about Marsac! Or Treville."

"Then what is it about," Porthos growled.

"Look, forget I said anything." Aramis set his hands on the table and leaned back.

"No Aramis, this isn't done."

"I'm perfectly happy to call it done."

Porthos reached over and wrapped his fingers around Aramis's wrist as he stood to leave.

"No. You aren't. And I'm not either."

Aramis sighed, his head tipping to shadow his eyes. "Then say what you have to say Porthos."

"I'm tryin', you're just not listening."

Aramis slid back into his seat, taking his hand back and crossing his arms, "Fine. What?"

"I've still got your back. I always will."

Aramis snorted, "But you didn't." He stood again, "I'm leaving Porthos."

Porthos gained his feet to block his way. "You want my apology? You have it. You'll have it a thousand times over if you'd accept it, but you can't can you? You're so wrapped up in that head of yours you won't even see what's right before your eyes."

"What are you talking about?"

Porthos reached into his coat and pulled out a crumpled daisy. He held it between them. "It was yours three days ago already," he growled.

Three days…

Aramis took the flower from Porthos's hand feeling as if every eye in the tavern was on them in that moment. He swallowed. Realising that if he was thinking it then Porthos was likely burning under the weight of it. And sure enough, Porthos's complexion had darkened noticeably. The big man shifted and cleared his throat.

To think that things had gone bad enough that Porthos had resorted to giving him this, here, now, like this…

Aramis felt his lips twitch. And suddenly he was laughing, bent nearly double at the absurdity of two men spilling their hearts over a crumpled daisy, one that had lived past its prime after three days on a windowsill no less! Tears sprang to his eyes and he brushed them away with a finger. Porthos had a hand on his shoulder and Aramis felt suddenly right. This, this was home. This was where he belonged.

He tossed the wilted flower on the table and drew Porthos into a hug.

"I'm sorry Porthos, I should have known."

"Yeah, me too," Porthos sniffed.

TMTMTM

"What's with the flower?" d'Artagnan asked as they watched the two friends embrace from across the room.

Athos turned back to the bar, a smile tugging the corner of his lips as he lifted his cup – everything, all at once, right with the world.

"I'll tell you when you're older," he said.

D'Artagnan glared at him and Athos smirked.

...