A/N: Hello, everyone! I've recently been pulled into the fandom that is The Musketeers, and I have to say, it's fantastic. I've had a lot of ideas for some fanfic after watching the first two seasons, but when I sat down to write one, the muse ordered this instead. Sorry. Anyway, it was a lot of fun to write, and I regret nothing. Some light hurt/comfort, hopefully lots of humor.

I don't have a beta, all mistakes are my own. As for the dates of discovery and things mentioned, I mostly just Googled them. I tried to be semi-historically accurate, but there are bound to be errors.

I hope you guys get a laugh out of this, or at least a giggle, and have a great day! :)

Namaste.

D'Artagnan listened contentedly to Porthos and Aramis chuckling quietly at some private joke as his horse walked easily down the path. Athos rode by his side, taciturn as ever, but possessing a quiet strength d'Artagnan had come to rely on. They were traveling back to Paris from a successful mission delivering a package of moderate importance to a nobleman several leagues from the city, with no casualties and very little trouble, if he was being completely honest with himself. The young man was constantly reminded of the privilege-and the burden-of bearing the fleur-de-lis crest on his newly-commissioned pauldron.

Athos suddenly pulled his horse up short, stopping him in the middle of the trail. It was enough to shock d'Artagnan immediately out of his reverie, and the others pulled up behind him.

"What is it?" Aramis asked quietly. Athos just stayed stock-still on his horse, ignoring the question. Suddenly, his eyes widened. "Bandits!" he hissed, just as a musket shot rang through the air. The musketeers immediately moved into their defensive tactics, spreading out and moving quickly, both to ascertain which direction the enemy was from and to make a moving target.

D'Artagnan stole a backwards glance towards his companions, and noticed a man crouching in the underbrush, aiming a musket at Aramis.

"Aramis! Look out!" he screamed at his friend, but Aramis had already drawn one of his pistols. He fell sideways in the saddle, holding by his left leg and heel as his horse—well-trained for maneuvers such as this—pranced and jigged to avoid being hit. He fired, aim straight and true as ever as he looked down the barrel towards the would-be assassin. The man didn't have time to pull the trigger as Aramis's bullet embedded itself in his left eye.

D'Artagnan quickly pulled his own pistol and shot a man running at Porthos, who was currently engaged in a sword-fight, as Athos quickly dispatched his own enemy in a similar fashion. Wheeling his horse around sharply, he went to Aramis's side who had dismounted and was now petting his horse's nose and whispering quiet assurances.

Others in the garrison had thought it odd that the elegant man should talk to his horse. Aramis had always claimed that the more you talked to a horse, the better it would serve and obey you in times of battle. D'Artagnan had always listened to this explanation with a skeptical ear.

After witnessing the grace and ease with which Aramis had just completed the shot, he was hard pressed to doubt the truth of the older musketeer's statement.

He dismounted quickly and skidded to a halt on the forest floor, watching Athos and Porthos defeat their enemies with a final ringing of their swords. He looked around, wary of any other attackers, but didn't see anyone and turned back to Aramis.

Aramis smiled as he looked at the young man in front of him, eyes round and amazed, who seemed awestruck.

His smile faded as he turned to his other companions and saw a blooming patch of scarlet on Porthos' right shoulder.

"I'd better take a look at that," he said, purposefully moving towards the larger man. Porthos backed away, scowling.

"It's fine, 'Mis. Just a graze. Doesn't even need stitches," he said quickly.

Aramis fixed him with a look that threatened bodily harm if he disobeyed his supreme medical authority. Porthos immediately began unfastening his doublet so Aramis could have a better look.

After giving it a thorough examination and probing at the edges of the slice, Aramis hummed in approval.

"Looks like you're right this time, my friend. It should heal nicely, without the aid of my needlework," he smiled, and the larger man grinned back.

Athos watched the well-worn exchange impassively, although Aramis would swear he could see the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

None of them noticed the sole remaining bandit, creeping silently through the underbrush towards where d'Artagnan stood near the tree line.

"Aramis, what shooting! God above, what shooting!" D'Artagnan said in a voice full of wonder. Aramis turned to face the young Gascon with a cocky smirk, that quickly morphed into concern.

"D'Artagnan!" he yelled, as the bandit leapt from his cover in the underbrush. The bandit pulled his sword and sliced at the musketeer, missing him by mere inches. The man ran into him, knocking the air from his lungs and landing on him painfully. Raising his sword, the bandit hit the Gascon's temple sharply with the pommel of his sword. D'Artagnan's eyes rolled into his head as he went unconscious.

As the bandit began charging at Porthos, Athos's pistol rang out, aim sure and gaze unfaltering as the bullet struck the criminal square in the chest, near his heart.

Aramis crossed the distance between himself and d'Artagnan in two easy strides and fell to his knees. Athos quickly dropped down beside him, followed almost immediately by Porthos.

Aramis tapped the young man's cheek lightly, hoping to rouse him. He got no reaction, and gently lifted d'Artagnan's head to examine the darkening bruise on his temple. He hissed in sympathy, and even Athos winced at the injury.

"D'Artagnan," the Comte said, gently rubbing the center of the unconscious man's chest. Aramis nodded in approval. The youth's eyes fluttered, and he stirred weakly, but didn't wake.

"Hey. D'Artagnan," Aramis tried, tapping his cheek again insistently. "You with us?"

There was no reaction. Porthos reached forward to squeeze his hand with a strong but careful grip.

"Oy. Whelp."

The man was clearly struggling to regain consciousness, eyelids fluttering and head turning from side to side. Finally, his eyes opened to see the faces of his worried friends gazing down at him.

His face contorted into a grimace of pain and his eyes slid shut again. "Ow," he managed quietly. Aramis looked at his friends with worry. Normally the Gascon wouldn't admit to pain even if he was bleeding out. Seeing him do so now told him how bad off the youth actually was.

"What happened?" d'Artagnan asked, eyes opening and seeking out Athos's steady gaze.

"You were hit by a bandit," his mentor replied, tone calm as ever.

"We got him," Porthos supplied helpfully.

Aramis took him by the chin and forced him to look him in the face, examining his eyes for telltale signs of a concussion. Finding his pupils uneven sizes, he sighed and rocked back on his heels

"Wait," d'Artagnan slurred, propping himself up on an elbow amid protests from his friends. "You killed him?" he asked, eyes wide and voice noticeably higher than normal.

Aramis looked at the other musketeers in bewilderment, his expression mirrored in their faces.

"Well, yeah," Porthos said eventually, sounding confused. "Should we have done anything else?"

"Why would you kill anyone?" d'Artagnan yelled, partly from fear, partly from anger. "He was an extra! He didn't even have any lines! I know what he did was unscripted, but that's not a reason to kill the guy!"

"What on earth are you talking about?" Athos asked, not bothering to hide his astonishment.

"What script? We don't understand what you're saying, d'Artagnan," Aramis said worriedly, reaching forward to probe at the contusion on his head again. "Are you alright?"

The young man slapped his hands away. "No, I'm not alright! My head hurts and you've just killed a man!"

"Bit touchy, isn't he?" Porthos remarked dryly.

"Where's the director? Why hasn't anyone cut the take yet?" The Gascon demanded.

"D'Artagnan, what director? What do you mean, 'take'?" Athos asked him, gazing earnestly into the younger man's eyes.

"Stop calling me that," he replied.

Porthos' eyebrows shot up. "Should we call you anything different?" he asked gruffly, while Aramis just frowned.

The youngest musketeer rolled his eyes. "You could call me by my name."

Silence reigned supreme for a full five seconds in which the confused young man found himself the object of intense scrutiny.

"That's it," Aramis said. "We're going back to the garrison. We'd better have LeMay look him over. I've never seen a head injury with effects like this, nor have I heard of anyone with similar symptoms."

"He can ride with me," Athos said smoothly. "I'm not sure he should ride after such a blow."

Porthos had already stood up and was preparing to mount his horse.

"What? Where are we going? The ER?" the young man asked, bewildered.

"No," Aramis said patiently, deciding to ignore the confusing letters entirely. "We're going to Paris, to the garrison, where Doctor LeMay can look you over."

"Why would we—" the young man seemed to look around, eyes widening in understanding. "Wait. So we're actually in France right now? In 1630?"

"Yes," Athos said, torn between real concern for his protegee and relief that the man finally seemed more lucid.

He turned to face Aramis, with an unreadable expression. "You really believe you are Aramis then, don't you?" the elegant man stared at the younger with a look of deep concern before answering, "Well, who else should I be?"

"Oh, hell," D'Artagnan stated, before dropping his head into his hands.

"Time to go," Athos intoned, and swung himself up easily into the saddle, extending a hand to d'Artagnan who took it with a resigned look. Sitting behind him and clinging to the older man's waist as they set off at a gallop, the young man closed his eyes and prayed that this was all a dream.

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Three hours later with a sore backside and his head thumping in time with the horse's rhythm, he was forced to admit that it wasn't a dream. Aramis finally called a halt to their trek and dismounted under a copse of birch trees. "We'll rest here for a while, we should reach Paris in an hour or so," he announced.

D'Artagnan slipped off the horse, but his legs were unsteady and buckled under him. It was only Aramis' quick reflexes which kept him from faceplanting at Athos' feet. Grasping him around the waist, the medic led him to one of the trees and leaned him against it. D'Artagnan found himself exhausted and dizzy, making it a struggle to keep his eyes open.

"Here, you need to drink," he heard Aramis say and felt a water skin thrust into his hand. He took a swig from the pouch, eyes shooting open when the water hit his tongue. Quickly, he turned the pouch upside down and drained it, causing Aramis to grab the skin from him and say reproachfully, "Slowly, d'Artagnan, not all of it!"

"That's the best water I've ever had in my life," the young man said, voice filled with wonder.

Aramis decided to let that comment slide, whatever it meant.

"Feeling better?" he asked, noting that a little color had come back into the lad's face.

"Yeah," he said, running his hand idly over the grass blades.

Athos sat down near the two, distributing some kind of hard traveling biscuit to the group. Porthos joined them shortly after tying off the horses.

D'Artagnan fixed them all with a scrutinizing look, which Porthos would had found comical under different circumstances. The whelp seemed to be trying so hard to understand what was going on but couldn't quite manage it.

"You seem confused," Athos said quietly, hoping to prompt conversation after an awkward silence fell over the group.

"Of course I'm confused!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, losing all composure.

"This one's got a bit of a temper when he's concussed," Porthos muttered to Aramis.

"I'm not sure what's going on," Aramis murmured back, not taking his eyes off the agitated youth.

"I'm supposed to be in Prague, shooting the last few episodes before the finale!" he continued, oblivious to the exchange between the warrior and the medic.

"But instead, I've somehow managed to land myself inside the damn show, where everyone thinks the plot is real!"

He froze for a second, frowning over his words.

"D'Artagnan, upon my honor, I don't understand what you mean," Aramis said earnestly, looking into the young man's face.

The Gascon scowled.

"Well, you wouldn't, would you? Okay, this is gonna be hard."

He took a deep breath.

"All of us are actors in the 21st century, filming this story for a television show sponsored by the BBC network, currently shooting in Prague. None of this is real, it's all made up." he said.

Seeing no response, he continued.

"You're not actually Athos, Porthos and Aramis. Those were just fictional characters made up by a French write who won't be born for another two hundred years or so. Our job is to portray these characters while being recorded for mass entertainment around the world according to a script the writers give us, which can be pretty tragic, and kinda sadistic, when you actually think about it."

He let out his breath and waited for a reply.

"What do you mean, recorded?" Porthos asked, voice dangerously low.

"That's your question in all of this?" Athos asked with thinly veiled frustration.

"Your real name is Howard Charles," the Gascon said. Swiveling, he pointed to Athos. "And yours is Tom Burke. And yours is Santiago Cabrera," he said, turning to the handsome medic.

"No, d'Artagnan," Athos said, face stoic but his eyes full of pain untouched by years past. "My brother was named Thomas, not I."

"No, Athos' brother was named Thomas," d'Artagnan said exasperatedly.

"A Spaniard's name?" Porthos interrupted. "Aramis is French, like the rest of us."

The Gascon rolled his eyes. "He was born in Chile."

"D'Artagnan, I've never heard of that place, much less lived there," Aramis said softly.

"Well, you did!" D'Artagnan shot back. "Why can't you guys remember any of this?"

"As far as we know, none of this has ever existed," Athos said flatly.

D'Artagnan was about to snap back, but then reached into his pocket.

"I have proof," he said, triumphantly, pulling out a scrap of what Aramis assumed to be parchment.

"Look. This was a great prank guys, I'll admit it, you got me. But joke's over now," d'Artagnan said.

Athos took the paper from him and looked at it, noting the cloth content the paper must have contained in the texture.

"I can't read this," he said. "I believe it's in English."

Aramis took it and nodded his agreement.

"You're speaking English, stupid!" d'Artagnan yelled.

Athos raised an eyebrow.

"I'm speaking French. As are the rest of us. Because we're in France," he said slowly, as if to a child.

"Oh, my God," the Gascon closed his eyes. "You think you're speaking French because of the story and timeline. But you're speaking English, all of you. This is a BBC program. As in British Broadcasting. England," he said, enunciating his point with a pointed glare at all of them.

Porthos stared at him openly, jaw slightly agape.

"None of us can read this," Aramis said, looking at the paper.

"Dude, you know four different languages, one of them being English. Just read the damn paper and quit messing with me," D'Artagnan said tiredly.

"What in the name of hell is a dude?" Porthos mused quietly to himself.

"I can speak only French and Spanish," Aramis returned, never losing his patience and resolutely ignoring Porthos.

"Okay, fine. I'll read it then," he said, snatching the paper from Porthos' grasp.

"It says, 'As camera moves to left, bandit appears. Crouches from underbrush, Luke disarms from side. Normal dialogue follows fight scene, resume script after short cut.'"

They all stared at him in shock.

"What in God's name does any of that noise mean? And where did you learn to speak English?" Athos voiced the question mirrored in his companions.

"Jesus Christ, it's English! You're speaking it right now!" d'Artagnan screeched.

Athos raised an eyebrow at his companions, who looked shocked at the young man's usage of the blasphemous term.

"I think we need to get him back to LeMay. Now."

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Aramis quietly gave his thanks to the heavens that Paris was only an hour's ride, because d'Artagnan refused to stop talking. His conviction that he was somehow in the wrong time mixed with his concussion produced some bewildering comments, which would be hilarious if they weren't so worrisome.

"You know what?" the Gascon babbled to himself. Everyone had long since ceased to answer him.

"I don't think I liked the last episode. You 'member when we all sat down and read the script? It was pretty crappy, and the only good thing about it was that Bonacieux died. And even that wasn't great because Constance still doesn't wanna be with me. And you, brother," he said, pointing an unsteady finger at Aramis.

"You gotta watch out for Marguerite, man. Two-timing, double-faced hag," he spat.

At Aramis' shocked look, he hurriedly said, "She's working with Rochefort! And she knows." The special emphasis he put on the last word along with a meaningful look at Aramis confirmed his suspicion. The musketeer's heart sank.

"Hag," d'Artagnan said, clearly not finished insulting the Royal Governess.

"How—" Aramis began before being cut off sharply by a look from Athos.

"D'Artagnan clearly isn't himself right now. Nothing he says should be taken with weight," he said to the others.

"I can hear you," the young man said angrily. "And also, you're gonna get a promotion, but it'll stop you from doing what you really want, and you're gonna do the whole, "I will do what I must and end up liking it but also hating it and wishing I could drink into oblivion every night cuz I'm an emo" routine. It's really depressing, man. And your true love is a hag, too. I'm not really sure it's her fault anymore, though," the man broke off, frowning.

"That's enough, d'Artagnan," Porthos said, not liking where this conversation was headed.

"Oh, the teddy bear of the group decides to speak up," the young man said sarcastically.

"A teddy bear?" Porthos asked, feeling his temper rise despite his earlier vow to stay calm.

"It's a stuffed animal that children snuggle with at night because it's so adorable and fuzzy," d'Artagnan clarified.

"I am not fuzzy. Or adorable," Porthos growled.

"Oh, please," d'Artagnan said. "You are, though. You're so caring that the idea of one of us dying makes you cry."

"How did you know that?" Porthos asked, a note of real dread creeping into his tone. "You weren't even at the funeral."

"It was in the script," d'Artagnan said, for what had to be the thousandth time. "All of this was in the script."

"We're here," Athos announced loudly as they approached the gates of the garrison.

Hurriedly, they dismounted and pulled d'Artagnan off the back of Athos' horse. The lad seemed disoriented again by all the sudden movements.

Treville greeted them at the entrance.

"Hey, Hugo. I mean Captain. Whassup?" d'Artagnan slurred, leaning heavily on Aramis' shoulder.

"What's the matter what him?" Treville asked, leaning closer to examine the Gascon.

"He's concussed," Aramis answered quickly, not about to get into it right then. "Can you have LeMay sent to the recovery rooms? I think I'll need help," he said.

Treville's mouth tightened at the implied gravity of the situation and nodded. "I'll send for him right away."

They carried d'Artagnan into the room, and wiped his face down with a damp cloth. "After you get some sleep, you'll be fine," Aramis assured the uncooperative patient, who's surliness seemed increased after their short respite.

"Maybe you'll wake up and realize I was right the whole time," he said back snarkily.

At that moment, the door opened and LeMay came in, case in hand. His quick eyes assessed the situation and moved to where the injured youth slumped on the bed.

"What happened to him?" LeMay said, long fingers carefully probing the growing lump on d'Artagnan's head.

"Oh, you guys don't know the script," he said, looking at LeMay with wide eyes. "You need to wear your Plot Armor," he told the doctor firmly.

"I don't know what you mean, d'Artagnan," he said, checking his scalp for contusions.

"No, you need to wear your Plot Armor for the next couple episodes, dude," the Gascon insisted. "You were the Redshirt this time."

"Alright, I'll wear it," LeMay said seriously, although he turned away from the injured man and motioned for the musketeers to follow him into the other room.

"Rest now, d'Artagnan, we'll be back shortly," he said, before leading them to the connecting room, to give them some room to speak.

The young man gave an exaggerated sigh and started kicking his feet back and forth, humming "Ain't No Sunshine" contentedly.

"He was hit with a sword pommel," Porthos told LeMay.

"He's very obviously concussed, but he's never said anything like this before," Aramis said.

The doctor nodded seriously. "He's bound to be confused for a while, but it shouldn't be affecting him this badly."

"He thinks he's from a different time and we're all part of a story. And he also says we're all speaking English," Athos said calmly.

Suddenly, d'Artagnan's voice bellowed throughout the rooms as he reached his favorite part of the song.

"Ain't no sunshine when she's gone, and she's always gone too long anytime she goes awaaaaaaaaayyy," he trailed off. "So are you guys gonna come back in here, or am I gonna have to start singing ABBA? I will, but I don't want to. Don't make me," he said, a warning note creeping into his voice now.

Aramis rolled his eyes.

"He said he could read this," he said, passing over the strange white paper. "You spent some time in England, didn't you?"

LeMay nodded. "I spent some time working in one of their hospitals. I picked up quite a bit of the language."

"I do not recognize many of these words," LeMay said, frowning. "It says, 'As camera moves to left, bandit appears. Crouches from underbrush, Luke disarms from side. Normal dialogue follows fight scene, resume script after short cut.'"

"That what I freaking said!" d'Artagnan's muffled shout came to them, accentuated by a thump which was presumably a furious kick to the wall.

"He's whiny when he gets this way," Athos intoned, looking at Aramis, who shrugged.

"Let's go talk to him again. I want to try a few herbs and see what happens," LeMay said.

They walked back over to join their injured comrade just as d'Artagnan was belting the first few bars of "Take On Me."

"Oh, good," he grinned at them. "I didn't want to go through all that."

They all stared at him quietly, as he kicked his legs and gazed around the room, looking for all the world like an overgrown first grader.

"I want you to drink this," LeMay said.

The young man glared at him. "I want you to stay away from Tamla," he snapped back.

"Who is Tamla?" LeMay said, the unfamiliar name rolling of his tongue.

"Oh, I forgot. You would call her Constance," the Gascon said.

"Madame Bonacieux? I have the utmost respect for her, but I—I,' the doctor stuttered, a faint flush rising in his cheeks.

"Mm-hm," d'Artagnan said proudly, grinning.

"Stop harassing him," Aramis said, taking the cup from the doctor's hand and thrusting it into the young man's hand.

D'Artagnan stuck out his tongue and then downed the liquid. He took two large gulps, only to make a grimace and spit most of it out.

"That's disgusting!" he wailed.

"D'Artagnan, for the love of God, even Aramis isn't this bad!" Athos thundered, losing all patience.

"My name is Luke!" the young man yelled, before his eyelids grew heavy. His head dropped to his chest, and he would have pitched forward off the bed if Aramis hadn't caught him.

"D'Artagnan?" Porthos said worriedly, coming forward to check the man's eyes, which were half open and slowly looking around the room.

"He's alright, I've given him a light sopoforic," LeMay explained. "He'll sleep for a few hours now, and maybe he'll be more lucid when he wakes up."

They gently eased their friend backwards onto the bed and removed his boots and undid his doublet to make him more comfortable. Aramis' light touch ghosted over his ribs, making sure none of them had been injured.

"St'p feelin' me up, you perv," d'Artagnan said, weakly pushing away Aramis' careful hands.

The older man rolled his eyes and backed away as Porthos grinned.

"You know guys, this season sucks," d'Artagnan said, voice growing soft as he fought the influence of the herbs.

"Just rest now, d'Artagnan," Athos said, brushing his hair back in an uncharacteristic display of affection.

"No, I mean, there are plot twists and betrayals all over the place. People are always tryin' to screw us over…" he trailed off.

"But we get through it. All of it," he said, opening his eyes. Although they were glassy and unfocused, they seemed to sharpen with conviction as he looked at all of them.

"Don't we always?" Porthos asked, smiling down at his friend.

The Gascon's eyes closed, and he drifted away.

Several hours later, the dull throbbing of his head woke him up, and his eyes opened to see the worried medic bending over him.

"Aramis? Athos?" he asked confusedly. The latter musketeer appeared in his line of vision seconds later.

"Where's P'rthos?" he slurred, trying to regain his bearings.

"I'm here," a deep voice said from somewhere to his left.

"Are you finally with us, whelp?"

"Think so?" d'Artagnan's brow furrowed, feeling disoriented.

"Can you remember what happened?" Athos asked him.

"We –were attacked outside of Paris. Bandits," the young man said, the memories washing back. "I saw Aramis shoot one of them. And then-that's about it," he finished.

"You mean you don't remember—" Porthos began, before Aramis swiftly kicked him hard in the ankle.

"He said he doesn't remember," Athos told him menacingly.

Aramis saw d'Artagnan struggling to keep his eyes open again.

"Go back to sleep, we'll be here when you wake up. Hopefully with some food," he said, with a wry grin.

"M'kay," the younger man said, snuggling back into his blankets. "Porthos?"

The huge musketeer leaned forward. "Yeah, runt?"

"I had a dream that you were a teddy bear," the young man said drowsily, before slipping into unconsciousness once more.

Silence fell over the room, punctuated only by the soft sounds of d'Artagnan's breathing.

"Not a word of this to anyone. Ever." Porthos all but growled, before stomping off towards the kitchens amid the ill-concealed laughter of his friends.