Icing and Airships

Summary: From the 'Bitter to Sweet' universe. Athos comes home to a surprise that involves family, friends, memories, and traditional and non-traditional uses of desserts. D'Artagnan/Athos Slash.

Author's Notes: After a severe case of the giggles in the kitchen making Christmas cookies with my mother, this fic after much lazing about finally got finished. And also after much poking and prodding with foam noodles XP. There's a few things here and there that will refer to the larger 'Bitter to Sweet' story-some things of which haven't been written yet-but this can still be read separately without much confusion. This is about 10 years or so after the first novel, so D'Artagnan is obviously much older, as is Athos and everyone else. Raoul however is about eight or nine months old.

Warnings: This story will be a two-parter. The first chapter will be for general audiences and chapter two will be for MATURE audiences ONLY! Hence the rating, kiddies. If you're not supposed to be here go scamper away now. This story is rated for sexual content in the second chapter and it is also a SLASH story, as stated in the summary.

Disclaimer: The Three Musketeers and its characters rightfully belong to Alexandre Dumas. I'm just a serial borrower.

Athos dismounted from his horse and bit back a groan. He now understood why his father had always grumbled about growing old. The harsh winters made it particularly keen when the cold seemed to so easily settle into his bones no matter the number of layers he wore. And riding back from Paris before the breaking of yet another snowstorm compounded his current problems. Yes, he was home and he thanked God for it, but if there wasn't a blazing fire going in the library Grimaud would be better saved running for the mountains than trying to escape his master's shivering wrath.

The servant in question silently took the reins and quickly moved to tend to the horse while Athos all but ran into the house. Inside the foyer he pulled off his damp gloves and cloak and dropped them in a sodden melting pile on the stone floor. The cool temperature of the house alone was warmer than outside, but he continued upstairs to seek a better source of warmth than a shield from the bitter wind. He cupped his hands and blew on them to get some of the feeling back. As he went, he was surprised to note that the house was quiet. Even Raoul's voice was nowhere to be found, which made Athos think he was down for an afternoon nap, as the boy had recently taken to testing the volume of his voice on every waking occasion.

On his way to the library he peeked into his son's nursery and raised an eyebrow at the empty crib. Perhaps he was with his nurse? He hadn't heard her in the kitchen, and neither had she come to greet him at the door…

Athos stilled.

A soft noise from down the hallway.

From the library.

The muffled voice of a man.

And the voice did not belong to D'Artagnan.

On instinct, his hand drifted toward the pistol that he had stuck in the back of his belt as an earlier precaution for the roads. A thick seed of worry settled in his gut, but he ignored it as he inched down the hallway, on light feet. He stopped in front of the door to the library to find it cracked open. A fire was roaring on the hearth from the light on the walls. And there were shadows. Three of them. And one with a small bundle in his arms. He held his breath to keep his rage at bay and tightened his hold on the gun behind his back. Then he slowly pushed the door open.

The second he did a cacophony of "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ATHOS!" (D'Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis, his mind barely registered in the middle of-) and "AAAAAAAAAAA!" (courtesy of Raoul once D'Artagnan took his hand away from the boy's mouth) assaulted his ears.

Understandably, he stood in the doorway in shock for the better part of a minute before he could process what had just happened. Relief was the first thing he felt, his grip on the gun going slack. Then came the confusion, but even in the midst of it he allowed a soft smile to grace his face and brighten his features. It had been some months since he'd seen his friends together, and everyone under the same roof again for his…oh.

It was his birthday, wasn't it?

D'Artagnan passed Raoul over to an eager Porthos, who bounced the giggling boy happily. Then D'Artagnan crossed over to Athos, brisk and not without a bit of trepidation. "It was their idea," D'Artagnan whispered. "I'm sorry. I tried to explain-"

"No, don't be," Athos replied, softly so neither Aramis nor Porthos would hear. "I'm just relieved I don't have to kill anyone in my home." *

D'Artagnan winced. "I thought sending Grimaud out to meet you would help."

"It's fine. I appreciate the thought most of all." Athos pulled D'Artagnan close by his hips and leaned down to kiss him. Just as their lips met D'Artagnan jerked and let out something of a yelp. He blushed a bit at his own response before offering an excuse. "God, you're cold!"

Without anything further, and to Athos' grumbling, his lover pulled him over to a seat by the fire to warm up. Along the way Aramis and Porthos both embraced and welcomed him, and he to them in return. No sooner had Athos sat down did Porthos plop Raoul into his lap. "Now don't be a grouch," Porthos bolstered on. "It's your birthday! And by God you are going to have a party!"

"Small as it is," Aramis amended. "We thought you could use a break from all this work you're drowning yourself in, Athos."

"A vineyard doesn't grow by itself," Athos protested.

"BAAA," Raoul exclaimed, squirming and bouncing on his father's knee.

Porthos laughed. "You see? The boy is in agreement with us!"

After much debate, and Porthos fussing over the finer details of what they should do first, it was decided that presents should prelude the beautiful looking chocolate birthday cake-made by both Katharina, Raoul's nursemaid, and Grimaud-topped with a creamy hazelnut icing. Athos thanked them both, to which Katharina merely blushed and curtseyed while Grimaud nearly keeled over with the shock of praise and gratitude. D'Artagnan thoughtfully plucked Raoul from Athos lap before Porthos delivered his present, wrapped-of course-with an outrageously shiny bow.

Athos felt himself color a little at the outward show of care that he just simply had done without for so long. "None of you had to do this!"

"You're a count again, Athos," Porthos proclaimed. "Or on your way to becoming one. It shouldn't be too much longer before Louis decides he can't do without your wine. You have to start looking the part."

Athos pulled the ribbon aside with a little trepidation for what lay inside, and when he opened the box he felt his eyebrows raise a little. Inside was a jacket done in rich browns and a cravat done in an off-white, which paired with the jacket looked rather tastefully done, and most importantly not overdone. The fabric was soft, but made thick for the winters, and in the light reflected a soft pattern of fleur-de-lises that otherwise Athos would not have taken note of.

"You oaf," Athos exclaimed, looking to Porthos with a gentle incredulity. "You are too ridiculous for words. Thank you, Monsieur Baron."

Porthos grinned from ear to ear. "You're welcome, Monsieur Count."

Athos stood up to embrace the large man and was nearly lifted off his feet, as usual. As they sat back down Porthos turned his stupid grin towards Aramis and D'Artagnan, as if friendly challenging the other two to do better. Aramis rolled his eyes with a smile. And D'Artagnan looked completely unfazed.

"How exactly did you come by my measurements," Athos asked, the question prodding him since setting eyes on the jacket.

Porthos coughed and looked a little out of place. "Sorry? Can't quite hear you over the little one, Athos."

Athos raised an eyebrow, but quickly let the matter drop as Aramis reached down towards his traveling bag and pulled out two things. One was a bottle of red wine Athos easily recognized. "You don't mean to tell me you went all the way to Italy to get this?"

"I did," Aramis admitted. "In the case my other plans for your birthday fell through. But thankfully they didn't." He then handed Athos the other item, wrapped in a dark silk cloth.

Athos handed the wine off to Grimaud and had him pour four glasses. Then he turned the wrapped item over in his hands, eyeing Aramis for any clues, but receiving nothing. So, he unwrapped it, and felt his lips part in shock. He had to blink more than a few times to assure himself that what he was seeing was real. Then he looked to Aramis for an explanation, not trusting his eyes to be tricking him.

The priest smiled and leaned forward on his knees. "His Holiness's secretary owed me a favor from some time back when we were initiates. I know you had given up looking for it long ago."

"What is it," D'Artagnan asked.

"It's the original manuscript of my family history," Athos breathed, almost afraid to touch the yellowed and browned vellum pages. "Written in the hand of my fifteen-times great-grandmother Eleanora at the end of her lifetime. This was the predecessor to that tapestry behind the desk. This manuscript was stolen from her eldest son in a raid and recovered by a monk on a pilgrimage to Rome. I have always wondered how accurate that tapestry was, as it was made a hundred years after this piece of history was lost. There are not many pieces of French history like this that still survive, something written in a woman's hand in a time when few women knew how to read."

"I suspect that was why it was so well-guarded," Aramis commented. "But don't worry, I wouldn't expect any papal soldiers outside your door to come looking for it."

Athos narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?"

Aramis smirked. "As of last week, that manuscript is officially lost."

Athos went to ask how, but stopped himself, not wanting to know any more. Just having this piece of his ancestry, his inheritance, something he had long considered more valuable than anything in the world, was enough for him. "You sound like you are bored in that monastery of yours, Aramis."

"Sadly so," the man sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"I don't know how to thank you for this."

"You just did," the priest said, rising and pulling his friend into an embrace. "Happy Birthday, Athos."

Athos swallowed past a strange little lump in his throat and gingerly wrapped the manuscript back up in the silk cloth, setting it aside in a safe place to examine further later.

"And you will just have to wait for my present later. For now," D'Artagnan said, raising his glass of wine and ignoring Porthos groaning in good nature. "To Athos, and to pleasant surprises."

"Hear hear," Porthos boomed, raising his own glass in response.

"And to many many more years," Aramis added.

"God willing," Athos replied, humbled beyond belief.

The four friends drank from their glasses, and even Grimaud and Katharina paused in their preparations to observe the toast in their own way. Athos looked around the room, at friends who had certainly aged gracefully, all gone different paths, and still managed to come back together again under one roof and celebrate with more gusto than they had in the past. Athos had friends. Athos had a lover, someone to love and be loved by in return, truthfully and completely in every way that was possible for two people. And Athos had a son. Athos had a family, in all these men. He had a future, which was more than he thought he would ever have serving as a lonely disenchanted and bitter soldier. If he had been looking for death before, then he certainly looked forward to life now.

And, yes.

All that it had in store for him.

Raoul pulled himself up into a standing position, holding onto D'Artagnan's knee and reached up towards the wine glass he held. "Aaaa!"

"Nooo. Not until you're much older," D'Artagnan scolded gently, putting the glass out of the boys reach.

The boy pouted and sank back onto his bottom. D'Artagnan reached down to pick him up but Raoul chose instead to crawl across the carpet to Athos. When he got to his father he reached up to grab Athos' boot and pant leg to haul himself up. Athos watched the boy like a hawk, but was careful to let his son do all the work. Raoul smiled when he was done, looking to his father for praise, which Athos freely gave, even in the presence of Aramis and Porthos. A small part of him still wanted to shy away from open affection, but as he learned quickly with his son, and also due to D'Artagnan's continued efforts, it was becoming much harder for him to give in to the old days.

Grimaud handed him a plate with a piece of his birthday cake as Katharina handed the others theirs.

Raoul, using his father's propped leg as leverage, stepped closer to him, eyeing the plate with curiosity. As a reward, Athos swiped a little drop of icing onto his fork and held it out for Raoul to taste. The boy opened his mouth without question and as soon as the sugar was gone Athos had the boy cooing for more, grunting wordless noises in agitation when he felt his father wasn't feeding him fast enough. After Raoul had eaten half the icing from Athos' piece of cake, he decided the boy had enough sugar in his system, since he was holding onto his father's pant leg and all but bouncing up and down in happiness.

To distract the boy from craving more sugar, D'Artagnan picked Raoul up off the floor and bounced him around on his hip around the room. Then he maneuvered the baby until he was belly-down and made wooshing noises as he carried Raoul with his arms out all around the room. 'Airships' as it had been called, was one of Raoul's favorite games. The look of pure awe on the boy's face was the reason why they played the game practically five times a day. And at the moment, Athos sat back and ate the rest of his cake in complete contentment.

D'Artagnan growled in good nature as he maneuvered Raoul back up into a regular position. Raoul cooed, open mouthed and joyful, as D'Artagnan pulled faces at him. Athos found himself smiling too, and if Porthos or Aramis tried to get his attention he never noticed. The man he loved played with his son without a care for how silly he appeared, lightly tossing Raoul into the air again and again, giggle after giggle. And in that moment of silent observation, Athos decided he would take the sound of his son's laughter and the perfect image of his lover so carefree and brilliant with him against any adversary he had yet to face.

With them as defenses, Athos knew nothing could ever break him.

At the end of the evening Raoul ended up in Aramis' lap, quietly snoring away, and against the priests wishes. What had Athos nearly barking out loud in laughter was the look of pure bewilderment on his friend's face and his tense form, fearing to even breathe for fear of waking the baby. Aramis had never been one for children, and it was one of the oddest things Athos had ever seen. Porthos had named it 'The Curse of the Cloth,' how it made women run blinding mad after him and made babies no matter the gender scream bloody murder as soon as they rested in his arms. They had never found the reason for it, and had thus grown to accept it as a strange normality.

Even once when Monsieur de Treville didn't believe them, thinking they were simply trying to get Aramis out of duty on his behalf, he learned. Oh did the captain learn from his folly that day. Ever since then, whenever the matter of a child came to Treville's desk, he knew not to put the poor creature within ten miles of Aramis, which usually meant none of them had dealings with children, which was fine with them at the time. Give me a sword-wielding rogue any day of the week, Athos thought to himself. Children and missions just did not mix well for them and never had.

D'Artagnan brought him back to the present with an arm around his back and a kiss on the side of his neck beside his ear. "And lo, the curse has been broken," D'Artagnan whispered.

'Don't jynx it,' Aramis mouthed.

"Sorry," D'Artagnan asked.

Aramis jerked a bit and tried to shush D'Artagnan, but stilled as soon as Raoul shifted. When the baby fell back to sleep, or rather when Aramis felt absolutely positive that the baby went back to sleep, he glared over at all three of his companions who were sporting identical looks of laughter-choked glee. They let Aramis sweat for a little while longer before Athos reluctantly left D'Artagnan's arms to gather his sleeping son.

"Give him to me," Athos said. "I'll put him down for the night."

Aramis happily obliged and sagged in relief as soon as the burden was in someone else's hands. "You know I don't do well with babies," Aramis hissed.

Porthos snickered, relentless in his teasing. "So does every babe and his mother from this side of the country to the southern border."

Aramis sent a scathing glare over to Porthos.

Raoul stirred a bit, prompting his father to bid goodnight to his friends.

D'Artagnan put a hand on Athos' back by the doorway. "I'll see them to their rooms for the night. Take your time. And come to bed when you're done," he said, softly making the skin of his lover's ear and neck tingle with sharp need and intrigue.

*This was a reference to a plot point, which hasn't been developed yet in the main 'Bitter to Sweet' storyline, but eventually will be. I don't want to give too much away, but suffice it to say, Athos has good reasons to be a little edgy at hearing unfamiliar voices in his house.