Title comes from this quote from Dumas' The Three Musketeers: "There is no friendship that cares about an overheard secret."

"So," Constance says.

Aramis doesn't move, sitting on the edge of the bed and sharpening his sword. Constance takes that as an invitation to come in. She closes the door behind her, knowing that Aramis won't want anyone to overhear them.

"Your mother was whore."

Aramis goes still, the scrape of whetstone against blade stopping. "You know I didn't mean it like that," Constance snaps, knowing the expression on Aramis' face without having to see it. "Do you honestly think I would think any less of you just because I know that?"

Aramis finally turns, offering Constance a weak smile. "Considering my mother was a whore and my childhood friend has turned out to be a murderess, perhaps you ought to think less of me."

Constance sighs. "Pauline was afraid, and she was in love. She's not the first woman to do something stupid for love."

"And I protected her," Aramis finishes. "She came to me, her skirts covered in that poor boy's blood, and I protected her."

Constance knows this story already, knows that Aramis turned the very blackmail used against Pauline against her fiancé and told him that, if he did not allow Pauline to disappear into a convent, he would tell the world that St. Pierre had been planning on marrying a whore. It had worked, and Pauline had been on her way to a convent within the hour. The boy's death had been ruled an accident and the body had been hidden away before anyone could claim otherwise. Aramis had told her all that and then promptly disappeared to his room, and d'Artagnan had claimed Constance's attention before she could follow. Only now, with d'Artagnan off at the Wren with Porthos, can she finish the conversation Aramis never wanted started.

"You did what you could for a friend," Constance says softly, sitting next to Aramis on the bed. "No one can blame you for that. All of us would do the same."

Aramis only lets out a deep sigh in response to that. He goes back to sharpening his sword, not looking Constance in the eye. She can tell he doesn't want to have this conversation, but she wants to know his past, and she wants to understand why he's never told anyone else. None of them would judge him for it - none of them have room to judge him at all - and surely he must know that. Constance can't understand why he's kept his silence.

"Will you tell me about your mother?" Constance asks quietly, since Aramis doesn't seem inclined to speak without prodding. He sighs again and sets his sword to the side, taking up his main gauche to sharpen instead.

"She was beautiful," he finally says. "She was Spanish, but that's no secret. She…" Aramis shakes his head. "My father didn't tell me that she died until years later, but she knew when she gave me up that she was not long for this world. She knew I would be better off with my father than in a brothel, so she let him take me."

"Who was your father?" Constance asks softly.

"A gentleman," Aramis replies. "No one too important. My mother was his mistress before she became a whore. He was old enough to be her father. He lived in Paris with her for some time, and then he moved to the countryside and left her behind. He didn't know she was pregnant. I was born five months later." Aramis' shoulders hunch up a little as he bends over his main gauche. "No one wants a mistress with a baby, but she refused to be separated from me, so she went to a brothel instead."

"It sounds like she loved you very much," Constance says softly. She knows it's poor comfort, but she has no other words to say.

"She did," Aramis agrees in a voice so soft she barely hears it. For a moment, he seems lost in thought, then he shakes himself and goes back to sharpening his main gauche. "My father didn't find out about my existence until nearly eleven years after he left my mother. A friend of his was in Paris and ended up finding his way into my mother's bed. He told my father that my mother was a whore in Paris, just as lovely as she'd always been, and that she had a ten year old son. My father put two and two together and went to Paris himself to investigate."

Constance wants to ask about Aramis' father, but she can't think of any questions that wouldn't offend him. She can't ask if his father cared about him, if he resented his son for being a bastard or loved him regardless. But Aramis has never required much encouragement to talk, and although he might not have chosen to speak about his parents, he clearly wants to let the words out.

"His wife had just died, and his son had married and left home. My father was lonely, so when he found out he had another son, he wanted to take me away with him." Aramis shrugs. "Like I said, my mother was dying, so she let him do it."

"You said everything she did was to help you," Constance says quietly.

"She thought it was for the best," Aramis agrees. "The mistress of the brothel was a good woman. She let me stay with my mother as long as I helped out with chores, but once my mother died, I would have had to either leave, or…" Aramis swallows visibly. Constance thinks she knows how the sentence will end. "Or take on new duties," Aramis finally finishes, which Constance can tell is the delicate way of saying that he'd have to take his mother's place. She thinks of Aramis - lovely, smiling, charming Aramis - working in a brothel, and she shivers. She's never met Aramis' father, but she's suddenly grateful to the man for making sure Aramis never had to go through that.

"My mother named me Aramis, but he called me René," Aramis adds. "Out of some sort of wishful thinking, I believe. I only lived with him for six years." For a moment, Constance thinks she might need to ask him why, then he adds, "Because of Isabelle."

"Isabelle?"

"A young woman I knew," Aramis explains. "I loved her. I had thought to marry her. But then…" Aramis' face twists. "I was stupid. I'm the son of a whore, I should have known better, I do know better, but…"

"What happened?" Constance asks softly, her voice devoid of judgment. She can't be sure, of course, but she suspects.

"She became pregnant. Her parents were furious. Said it was my father's fault for bringing a whoreson into the village."

"Aramis," Constance murmurs. Aramis ignores her.

"In the end, Isabelle's father decided he'd rather her be the wife of a bastard than the mother of one, so we planned to marry. And then she lost the baby, and she disappeared, and my father shunted me off to a seminary to be a priest."

"Aramis," Constance says again, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to tell me this."

"I'm nearly done," Aramis says, a weak imitation of his normal smile on his face. "And I trust you, Constance. I want you to know."

"Oh, Aramis," Constance murmurs, rubbing Aramis' shoulder soothingly. "You can tell me anything, you know that."

Aramis sets aside his main gauche, which has been sharpened for some time now, and begins drumming his fingers against his knee. He's never still, Constance knows that, and she's considered suggesting that he take up embroidery multiple times, knowing it helped her when she felt the urge to do something, no matter how inane. His stitches are fine enough for it, after all.

"I lasted in the seminary for a few months before I left," Aramis says. "I went home and told my father that I wanted to be a soldier instead. He wasn't pleased. He said that my mother had expressed a wish for me to be a priest, and I said I would apologize to her when I was in Paris." Aramis swallowed. "And then he told me she was dead."

Constance wraps an arm around Aramis' shoulders without a word. She can feel him trembling in her grip. "It had been years, and he'd known, and he hadn't said a word," Aramis tells her, his voice trembling as much as he is. "And then he still expected me to stay, to do what he said, to go back to the seminary like a good son." Aramis shrugs. "I didn't. I joined the army, and I haven't spoken to him since."

"Do you miss him?" Constance asks quietly.

"Sometimes," Aramis admits, the voice so quiet Constance almost doesn't hear it. "I want to hate him, but…" He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "He cared for me for six years. I cannot forget that. But my mother cared for me for ten, and he didn't let me attend her funeral. He didn't even tell me she was dead." Aramis' next breath hitches, and for a moment, Constance thinks he's going to cry. "I cannot forgive that."

"I do think he loved you, in his own way," Constance says softly. "He wanted what was best for you. Both of them did."

"They never asked me what I thought was best," Aramis retorts, fire in his words, but it dissipates just as quickly. He slumps, leaning against Constance slightly. "I… I am not ashamed of what my mother did, but I'm glad I never had to do it. But I wish I could have seen her again before she died, at least once."

"Why haven't you told anyone about her?" Constance asks softly. "If you're not ashamed, surely there's no harm in it."

Aramis' lips twist into a weak imitation of a smile. "As if it is not bad enough that I am half Spanish, you think I should tell the world my mother was a Spanish whore?" he asks. "Dear Constance, just because I am not ashamed doesn't mean I don't know what'll happen if people find out."

"You could tell Athos and Porthos," Constance retorts stubbornly. "You know they'll never judge you for it."

"Athos and Porthos and I don't talk about our pasts," Aramis replies, which is the flimsiest excuse Constance has ever heard. It's not as if everyone doesn't know that Porthos grew up in the Court of Miracles, or that Athos is not-so-secretly a lord. The unimpressed expression on Constance's face must tell Aramis what she's thinking, as he ducks his head. "It's not something I like talking about, Constance."

"You don't have to tell everyone," Constance replies. "You don't have to tell anyone if you don't want to. But why did you tell me?"

Aramis offers her another weak smile. It occurs to Constance that none of the smiles she's seen on his face in the past day have reached his eyes. "I thought you could help Pauline."

"Oh, Aramis," Constance sighs, pulling Aramis into a proper hug. She can feel him trembling slightly. "Aramis, it's alright."

"I went against Athos for her," Aramis whispers into her shoulder, which is news to Constance. "Her husband had bought the last of the Queen's jewels, and they didn't want to give it up, and I took her side over my brothers. Athos pulled out his sword, Constance, and if she hadn't given up the ring, I-" Aramis swallows audibly. "I don't know if he-"

"Don't be an idiot, Aramis," Constance scolds. "Athos would never have hurt you." She sighs softly. "That's what this is about, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Aramis mumbles.

"They learned to survive without you, just like you learned to survive without them," Constance says softly, running her fingers through Aramis' hair when she feels him shudder at the words. "But Aramis, there was never a day when they did not miss you."

"It's been years, Constance," Aramis whispers. "They don't need me anymore, but I need-" He chokes back the words.

Constance runs her fingers through his hair again. "They still need you," she whispers. "Trust me, Aramis, they still need you." She presses a soft kiss to the top of his head. "You should talk to them."

Aramis hums softly. It's not agreement, but it's not disagreement either. Constance knows it's probably the best she's going to get. "We all love you, Aramis," she whispers.

Aramis sighs softly, then pulls out of Constance's embrace. "You should go," he says with a smile that almost looks real. "D'Artagnan will be waiting for you."

"Talk to the others, Aramis," Constance says, trying to sound stern. "That's an order."

Aramis' smile flickers slightly. "Oh, Constance, you know how I feel about orders," he replies, then he presses a light, brotherly kiss to her cheek and ushers her out of his room.

D'Artagnan is indeed waiting for Constance in the room they share, lying on the bed and flipping disinterestedly through a book. "Where've you been?" he asks Constance with a smile when she enters, putting the book aside.

"Do you think Aramis…" Constance trails off, not quite sure what she wants to say.

D'Artagnan frowns slightly. Even without words, he knows what's on Constance's mind. "I think he'll be alright," he replies. "He's been gone for years. It'll take a while for him to adjust to being back in the Musketeers."

"And a while for you to adjust to having him back," Constance adds softly.

D'Artagnan smiles. "We were ready to have him back the second we found him in Douai," he replies. "Aramis will always have a home with us."

Constance sighs, slipping out of her dress and climbing into bed with d'Artagnan. "Tell him that, will you?"

"I think he knows," d'Artagnan replies.

"Tell him anyway," Constance says, because she's not so sure that he does.

"I will," d'Artagnan promises easily. He presses a kiss to Constance's lips. "I love you."

"I love you too," Constance replies, kissing him back. D'Artagnan curls around her, his breathing light against the back of her neck and his arm draped around her torso. Constance closes her eyes and tries to match her breathing to his.

Aramis will be alright or he won't. As much as Constance wants to slap him and force him to talk to the others, she knows she can't. All she can do is support him and do her best to make sure the others do it too.

Well, she thinks as she presses a little closer to d'Artagnan, at least she knows he'll help her. And between the two of them, maybe they'll be enough to make sure Aramis is okay.