Author's Notes: Tag to Episode 1x5, "The Homecoming".

Porthos is my favorite. Always.

I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

"A heart makes a good home for the friend." – Yunus Emre

Aramis didn't like it.

Porthos had conferred with Treville once they had returned from the Court of Miracles and then disappeared. And Aramis didn't like it. He didn't like that he couldn't see Porthos with his own eyes, remind himself the big man was alive and safe and well. His thoughts must have been all over his face, because when he met Athos' gaze, the other Musketeer nodded. Porthos was home. And he needed a reminding of it.

Now that he stood outside Porthos' rooms, he was not entirely certain of what kind of reception would be waiting for him. He stood outside the door for a solid minute before he knocked.

"Yeah?" growled Porthos, opening the door.

"You're missing the party, Porthos. The one to celebrate your return and exoneration? It's rather rude of you," answered Aramis, going for a light approach.

"Party doesn't seem like such a good idea just now."

"Nonsense. I'll just come in then? And wait until you're ready?" Aramis kept his words easy, but he wasn't leaving.

"Suit yourself." Porthos turned from the door, sitting down and staring at the table before him. Porthos was not often given to brooding, that was usually Athos' territory, but it seemed he'd been taking notes. Aramis followed him into the dark room, the single candle leaving Porthos' face in half shadows, but Aramis knew well enough what he was examining.

Porthos stared listlessly at his uniform pauldron, laying like a dead thing on the table. The symbol of his status as a Musketeer. The identity that the Red Guard had ripped from him.

"Shall I help reattach it?" asked Aramis, studying Porthos carefully.

"Don't know," rumbled Pothos. "Just dressing up a mongrel."

"Do not say that," snapped Aramis fiercely. "That judge was an ass, but more importantly, he was wrong. Wrong about what happened and wrong about you."

"But he wasn't, was he? I'm no noble, I've no name, no lands, no birthday."

"We celebrated your birthday."

"No, we got drunk on a day I chose as a child." Realization spread through Aramis. He had known where Porthos came from, an idea of the childhood he'd survived. But he never seen the lonely, distrustful child looking out of Porthos' eyes like he did tonight. It filled him with an ache for his friend.

They sat in silence in the dark. The air thick with Porthos' sadness and Aramis wished he knew how to ease it. He watched the fire flicker across Porthos' face and knew when his thoughts had shifted. Shifted to the man Aramis had killed without hesitation.

"Who was he?"

"Charon." Porthos didn't look up.

"Who was he to you?" Aramis tried again.

"We grew up together. Said I'd forgotten about them. Left them."

"He was your friend."

"Yeah. He was." Aramis sighed. He'd caused this.

"I'm sorry, Porthos."

"Don't," warned Porthos, his voice little more than a growl. He stood up, paced the length of the room and then back again, hands clenching. "It's not your fault. He..." Porthos slammed his fist onto the table, but Aramis had anticipated it. "He was going to kill me," whispered Porthos, like the words choked him. "He wanted me dead."

He looked at Aramis for the first time since he'd come in, eyes anguished.

"You protected me."

"My honor to do so," said Aramis fervently. He picked up the pauldron and held it like it was precious. "Porthos, the judge was wrong about everything that matters. You are brave and loyal and more noble than most men with high-born blood. I would protect you with my last breath, not because of duty, but because you have earned my love and respect a hundred times over. You have attained your place as a Musketeer through no one's favor, but you're own sweat and blood."

Aramis held out the pauldron.

"There is no other I more gladly call friend. Be proud of who you have become, Porthos, for I certainly am."

Porthos looked at the offered pauldron and then looked at Aramis through dark lashes. It was the look of a child half-expecting a trick, to have their dream snatched away.

But it was the man who refused to be crushed that reached out and took it back.

"Welcome home."