Athos and Porthos paused outside the door for a moment, listening for any sound from within to indicate whether or not they were interrupting. As furious as they had been with their youngest friend, they had no desire to humiliate him any further than they (and he) had already done. When all they heard was the occasional soft sniffle, they shared a brief relieved smile and Athos slowly opened the door.

Aramis, still seated on the bed with d'Artagnan curled beneath one arm, looked up as they entered, hastily raising one finger to his mouth to command quiet. The others nodded, lowering their kit to the floor gently before going about their business as silently as possible. Porthos knelt and stoked the dying fire, his chest feeling loose as it had not felt all day since they had awoken to find d'Artagnan gone. Athos seated himself beside Aramis' other side and briefly touched his hand to the younger man's knee, a concerned frown in place.

"He cried," Aramis informed him quietly, huffing a tiny laugh as he dashed the dampness from his cheeks with one hand.

Athos suppressed a smile – it had been Aramis then, not the peacefully sleeping d'Artagnan that they had heard from outside in the hall.

"Athos," Aramis said as though his friend had not heard him. "He cried!"

"Yes," Athos agreed, entirely unaffected by the revelation. "He does that."

"Why didn't you warn me?" Aramis demanded in an outraged whisper.

"It never occurred to me that I would need to," Athos said, a look of amused sympathy on his face. "You've enough experience to know he might, surely?"

Aramis sniffed harshly and dropped his gaze.

Athos sighed, glancing towards the boy briefly before returning to Aramis. "I apologise. I perhaps ought to have prepared you. One becomes...hardened to it – at least able to face it without tears of your own. For goodness sake, man, get a hold of yourself!" The last was spoken with mock severity and Aramis met it with a watery laugh as he raised his hand again to dab at his damp eyes.

"I wasn't expecting him to...," he trailed off, his gaze dropping to the top of d'Artagnan's head as he smoothed his hand over the raven locks. He bit his lip for a second then - "Oh God! I broke him, Athos!"

"You did not 'break' him," Athos said, jostling him a little but mindful of the youth currently resting on Aramis' other side. "I am certain he is fine."

"How can you be certain?" Aramis shot back, his arm tightening protectively around their youngest friend. "How can you be certain that I did not truly hurt him?"

"Aramis." Athos said no more, having said all he needed to with that one word. Having no words to describe his utter certainty that his friend, for all his anxiety, would not – could not – have 'broken' their young friend or even have given him any more than Athos himself would have, Athos poured all the affection and scepticism he could muster into just that name.

Aramis sighed harshly and covered his eyes with one hand. "It was awful, Athos," he confessed from beneath his hand. "I felt awful. If this is how you feel after...after...then I am truly sorry, my friend."

"He makes more of a fuss than you do," Athos assured him, the ghost of a smile playing about his mouth. "But I appreciate the apology all the same."

"I told him about Rousillon," Aramis said in a small voice, peering at Athos from behind his hand then glancing towards where Porthos had frozen in his undressing.

Athos too turned to share a look of surprise with Porthos.

"You must've felt bad," Porthos commented, wandering over to sit across from them on the other bed.

Aramis nodded shortly. His eyes stinging once more.

"Why?" Athos asked in confusion, "Why tell him of that?"

"It's your story to tell," Porthos added as Aramis shifted uncomfortably, "but what's that got to do with anything?"

"He thought...he thought we would be done with him," Aramis confessed, eyes downcast. "I made him think that we were through. I never said as much but...that's what he thought. I needed to make him see – make it clear to him that this was-was nothing compared to things I've done."

"And did he?" Athos breathed, his mouth strangely dry at the memory of that damned place and the almosst-tragedy that had befallen them there.

Aramis smiled and shook his head. "He fell asleep before I could ask."

As one they looked back at d'Artagnan, his eyes puffy and lashes clumped together but otherwise looking peaceful and content, safe and blessedly alive in Aramis' embrace. The threat and fear of losing him still hung about them as it always did when one of them came too close and Athos moved his hand from Aramis' knee to tuck a stray hair behind the boy's ear, too desperate for that physical reminder of his continued existence to be too self-conscious of the implications of his action. He could not lose another younger brother, it would kill him. As if seeking to escape his thoughts, he stood and began to take stock of what supplies were left.

"You can't have been at it long," Porthos murmured, as though sensing Athos' need for a change of topic. "Not if you've had time to settle him and tell him all that before we came up."

Aramis flushed and, glancing up, Athos leapt on the opportunity to wrench his thoughts away from darkness and into teasing.

"You're too lenient, Aramis," he said, the corners of his mouth quirking, "You spoil him."

"Athos wouldn't have had you do it if we'd known you'd be so soft about it." Porthos grinned.

"You weren't here," Aramis protested, though he was smiling as he did so, "I defy you to do better when it's your hand reducing him to such a state!"

"No, thanks." Porthos shook his head, taking Athos' seat beside them both. "I leave all the beatings to you sadistic bastards."

"We're both very grateful."

Porthos' smile widened. "You and Athos, or you and the Whelp?"

As though summoned from sleep by his oft-bemoaned nickname d'Artagnan took a great shuddering breath and came awake blinking heavily. If he was surprised to find himself the subject of such close scrutiny, he did not show it.

"You all right?" Porthos asked gently, cocking his head to one side to match d'Artagnan's.

"Mmhmm," d'Artagnan said sleepily.

"Eloquent as ever," Athos commented, coming to stand beside him with his arms folded.

"What I mean," Porthos went on, suppressing his amusement as d'Artagnan sat up and hissed as his scorched bottom made contact with the bed, "is can we all just go to bed and forget about this now, or does Athos need to have words with Aramis?"

"S'fine." d'Artagnan eased himself away from Aramis, his eyes downcast, obviously embarrassed. He took a shuddering breath, then: "I'm sorry. Both of you – all of you – I'm really sorry. It won't happen again, I swear."

Porthos and Athos shared a look.

"See that it doesn't, and we'll say no more about it." Athos said sternly, though his eyes were soft when d'Artagnan finally dared look at him and he smiled a bit at the relief on d'Artagnan's face.

Relieved from his duty as a human pillow, Aramis stood and stretched before stripping the last of his clothing down to his linens. His place vacated, Porthos slid closer to d'Artagnan and urged him back down onto his side – for all their teasing Aramis had clearly been very thorough if the boy's discomfort was anything to go by.

"Are you going to tell Treville?" d'Artagnan asked with a pitiful sniffle, gazing up at him apprehensively. "Will Athos tell him, do you think?"

"'Course we're not!" Porthos said exasperatedly, jostling the young man's shoulder gently, "What would we want to go and do a stupid thing like that for, eh? You heard Athos, it's over with now."

"Even though we almost –"

"Hey! What the Captain doesn't know can't hurt him – or us – right?"

"Right," d'Artagnan agreed. He tried to smile but to his embarrassment it made his eyes sting once more. It was with a tight voice he started to speak again, unable to silence his fears. "But what about if –"

"We got the job done," Athos said over his shoulder, sitting and removing his boots. "That's all Treville needs to know. Given how the job got done, it's all he'll want to know. Believe me."

"You're quite remiss in your duties sometimes, d'you know that?" Aramis grinned, propping his head up on one hand as he settled into the other bed.

"Just as well for you three if I am," came the somewhat scathing reply.

"'Course Athos never puts a toe wrong," Porthos whispered loudly with a wink to d'Artagnan. Standing and clapping the youth on the shoulder, he too began to prepare for bed.

"Ha! Compared to you three? No, I do not."

Athos stripped off the last of his outer clothes and slipped into bed beside Aramis with a long-suffering glare. After a moment of intense but hushed arguing, Aramis landed with a surprisingly loud THUMP on the floor and for a moment sat scowling up at Athos' back. He stood and crossed the room to the others, rubbing his back where, d'Artagnan belatedly realised, Athos had quite literally kicked him out of bed.

"Mind if I join you?" Aramis asked, not bothering to wait for a response before urging d'Artagnan out of the way with a tap to his sore backside. "Porthos, you're with Athos."

"Oh no – don't mind me!" Porthos grumbled, though his insult was entirely feigned as he obligingly took up Aramis' vacated place. "You just try 'em all out first, see which space you like best."

They lapsed into silence then. Athos having fallen into a heavy slumber almost before Porthos had even joined him, the other three lay in companionable quiet waiting for sleep to claim them, the silence broken only by Aramis' occasional scolding as d'Artagnan's hand strayed to surreptitiously try to rub the sting a little.

"A'mis?" d'Artagnan breathed after a while, the lack of sufficient sleep the previous night, and the day's events catching up to him. He curled himself closer to his bedmate until he could speak without disturbing the others. "'m really really sorry."

"I know," Aramis murmured back, turning onto his side to face the younger man and brushing an errant hair out of his face.

Feeling the last shred of embarrassment within him at being treated to so tender a gesture, d'Artagnan closed his eyes. He felt Aramis' breath on his face, whispering in Latin, and the feather-light touch of a cross being drawn across his forehead. Smiling at the by now familiar night-time ritual, he edged forward a little then paused, decorum and the last vestiges of self-reproach suddenly rearing their ugly heads. It was one thing to be held and soothed whilst suffering the immediate upset of a sound thrashing, but it was surely quite another to entertain the hope of it later when there were others present and his eyes quite dry. Still, he was exhausted, and that seemed to lend him courage. He bit his lip, watching the slow rise and fall of Aramis on the edge of sleep until, as though sensing he was under watch, the older man's eyes opened again.

"All right?" he asked, his brow creasing in concern.

"May I …?"

Aramis'sface took on a look of utter affection so that if d'Artagnan felt even a modicum of dignity left he would have blushed to be looked at thus. Aramis shrugged – as if it mattered not either way – but obligingly shuffled down and turned onto his back, his eyes fluttering shut. After another couples of seconds of fearful uncertainty, d'Artagnan rolled more fully onto his stomach and gingerly laid his head atop Aramis' shoulder, his forehead tucked into the gap where shoulder and neck met. The older man sighed, one hand coming up to rest comfortingly upon d'Artagnan's sweat-dampened hair. Encouraged, he shuffled closer and suddenly felt his hand seized by Aramis who pulled it across himself until their position became almost obscenely intimate – not that Aramis seemed to care.

"There now," Aramis mumbled, already sounding half asleep. "No more thinking. Just sleep."

"And you'd better bloody be here in the morning," Porthos said without turning, sounding a mixture of fond and threatening. "We'll come after you, Whelp. You see if we don't."

d'Artagnan smiled against Aramis' shoulder. Thanking God for his good fortune – not only in finding friends so willing to forgive, but also for Aramis' complete lack of appreciation or need for personal space – d'Artagnan closed his eyes and was asleep in less than a minute.