This was written before 1x07 aired. Set soon after 'Commodities.'

D'Artagnan didn't really know what he was thinking when he turned up at Athos' door, long after the churches had chimed midnight. All he'd really understood was that beneath his mask of indifference, Athos was hurting and Aramis and Porthos, as much as they loved their brother, didn't know the reason why and so could not help. By that logic, it was up to D'Artagnan.

Athos had taken himself off straight after duty with every intention of getting himself blind drunk – no one had tried to stop him. The last few days had been hard on all of them and even the relief at having Bonnaire get his just desserts was not enough to revive their flagging spirits; they could all use some down time. But D'Artagnan found himself unable to go to sleep knowing that somewhere Athos was out in the darkness on his own, with no one there to wake him from the nightmares that plagued him every time he closed his eyes. It wasn't right.

And so he'd climbed out of bed and took off into the night, sliding from shadow to shadow so that he didn't attract any unwanted attention; with his sword at his hip it was unlikely someone would try to mug him, but it always paid to be cautious.

It wasn't until the door in front of him opened a crack that he realised he'd half expected his knock to be ignored, or for Athos to be too far gone to muster the strength to answer him. Instead, the musketeer peered blearily at him, blinking for a moment before recognition dawned and he stepped away to allow D'Artagnan entry. The younger man pushed the door open carefully and closed it behind him, his eyes fixed on the man staggering back to his chair at the table.

"You shouldn't be here," Athos slurred at him, so heavily inebriated that it actually took D'Artagnan several moments to understand what he'd said.

"Someone should be. It might as well be me."

"You're not even a musketeer. How exactly do you think you can help me?" It was the alcohol talking, combined with a heavy dose of self-hatred and torment but the words still stung D'Artagnan more than he was willing to admit. They were true of course – Treville hadn't made it official just yet – but they'd been working with an understanding that he would join their ranks very soon and he wasn't prepared for such fierceness from the man he considered a friend.

"Who said anything about helping? I'm just here to make sure you don't fall out your own window or something," he snapped back, settling himself against the windowsill pointedly. Sometimes the best way to deal with Athos was biting humour.

"Go home D'Artagnan."

"No."

Athos huffed, irritated, but in no fit state to force the Gascon to do as he willed. Defeated, he slumped into his chair, pulled a half empty bottle towards him and proceeded to ignore his guest as grouchily as he could.

D'Artagnan said nothing, letting himself fade into the background as an unwanted spectator and took in the room around him. There were bottles scattered across the floor haphazardly and in certain places there were scuff marks on the walls that seemed to be remnants of collisions – Athos had never seemed a violent drunk but then he tended to retreat to his rooms before he really lost it. From the glass shards, it would seem that more than one bottle had met a grisly end.

Time passed sluggishly as Athos did his level best to crawl his way into hell and D'Artagnan watched with growing worry. It wasn't his place to tell his superior what to do but surely it was his job to help out a friend in need?

"Maybe you should get some sleep," he suggested tentatively. Athos glared.

"Maybe you should leave."

D'Artagnan was honestly a little impressed that the musketeer could still form a coherent sentence but he didn't let it distract him. "You're going to regret this in the morning."

"It is the morning." A quick glance out the window confirmed that dawn was indeed breaking on the horizon. In another few hours D'Artagnan would be expected to report for duty.

"Athos, you have to be back in uniform soon and you're going to need to be sober. Here, let me help." He stepped forwards with the intention of aiding the flailing musketeer to his feet but Athos planted a hand on his chest and pushed, sending him staggering backwards in surprise.

"I don't need your help!" The musketeer was suddenly agitated, nothing like the man with iron control he usually was. "Leave me!"

D'Artagnan could see this spiralling out of control and he considered obeying but then he mentally shook himself. No one with any honour would leave Athos alone right now, no matter what words were hurled at him. "There's no one else here Athos and you look like if you try to stand up without the help of that table, you'll hit the floor. Just let me help you get to the bed then I'll go."

The musketeer practically growled at him. "Leave me. I don't care what you think, I don't need your help and I certainly don't want it."

The Gascon was quiet for a moment, weighing Athos up with his eyes and evaluating his chances of avoiding conflict. They weren't good. "I can understand if you don't want my help: I'm not a musketeer. When I met you I tried to kill you. You have every reason to want me gone. But Athos, you're not coping with this and you know it – you need to talk to someone. If it isn't me then you need to tell Aramis or Porthos because they're watching you kill yourself in silence and it isn't fair on them. They don't even know you were married-"

The blow that caught his jaw sent him sprawling, his head colliding painfully with the wall behind him. He lay there, stunned, as Athos stumbled past him in the direction of his bed, not saying a word before he was gone.

D'Artagnan stayed down for longer than necessary, letting his thoughts reorientate themselves into comprehensible lines. His head was pounding sharply and there was a slight tremor in his limbs as adrenaline rose up, ready for a fight. When he eventually clambered up, he could hear the soft snores drifting from Athos' room and took some comfort in the fact that he'd achieved what he'd set out to do. At the same time: ouch.

He was half tempted to stay and make sure Athos woke up on time but caution warned him away. He really didn't want to get hit again – the alcohol seemed to enhance the musketeer's already impressive strength and the wall hadn't exactly been kind. He'd have a bump there for weeks.

The cold air outside helped sharpen his senses again and as he walked home he thought through what had just happened. He was somewhat surprised to realise that he felt no anger towards Athos for the violence, nor did he blame him – the man was drunk and D'Artagnan had been pushing on a nerve. He couldn't blame anyone but himself for that. It did, however, strengthen his resolve to persuade Athos to share his secrets with the others, if only so that the musketeer would finally realise that he didn't have to bear all his burdens alone.

D'Artagnan fell into his bed heavily, tired of thinking when his head pounded so viciously. He spent the smallest of moments considering how tired he was going to be tomorrow – today – before he discarded the thought and allowed his mind to shut down.

As he had predicted, when D'Artagnan was roused a few hours later, he was less than pleased. Constance, ignorant of his aching head and worn out limbs, bustled about the room, throwing open the shutters and chattering away about nothing in particular; he sent her a half-hearted glare from where he had buried himself in blankets.

"If you want to eat, you need to get up. There's no point in looking at me like that," she warned him before taking her leave.

He sighed heavily, forcing his body into a sitting position and rubbing at his face in a futile effort to try and make himself more alert. He was still dressed in the clothes from the day before and for a full minute he considered just wearing them again before deciding that the ribbing Aramis would give him for such a thing wasn't worth it. Once he eventually forced his uncooperative limbs into a new shirt, he dropped back onto the bed to pull on his boots, struggling with the unwieldy material.

Somewhere in the background, someone was hammering on something but he paid the thought no mind, his brain too sluggish to even try. He was supposed to work on his swordsmanship today – it wouldn't be pleasant. With every shift of his muscles, nausea pooled in his gut and his head throbbed mercilessly; the clang of metal on metal would be as a thunderclap.

The hammering had stopped. There were voices drifting through the open door to his room and D'Artagnan looked up, curious for the first time. Constance didn't receive many visitors to the house and her husband should already have left for work, but why would anyone want to visit D'Artagnan?

Answers came in the form of a dishevelled, flustered Athos in the doorway, looking at the younger man strangely, as though trying to measure him up. D'Artagnan rose on instinct – that was the look of a man gearing up for a fight, and he didn't want to be caught by surprise twice in a row. The bruising along his jaw line was evidence enough of the strength of his opponent.

"I think we need to talk," Athos announced calmly, his voice scratchy and sleep deprived. There was also a very soft slur that implied the musketeer wasn't wholly sober just yet.

"Maybe that's wise. It's fine Constance," he told the hovering woman, offering her a gentle smile to encourage her to leave. If this turned to violence again then he didn't want her having any part in it. When she was gone an awkward silence hung over them, oppressive and unfamiliar. "I shouldn't have pushed you last night," D'Artagnan admitted eventually. "You asked me to leave and I had no right to disobey you."

"No," Athos agreed flatly. "You didn't."

The silence stretched again and the Gascon shifted uncomfortably, glancing out the window at the brightening morning. "We're going to be late," he said softly, feeling ten times worse than he had when he'd awoken; it was like a lead weight had settled in his chest and was doing its best to crush his innards. He stepped around Athos, heading for the door with his eyes on the floor but a gloved hand shot out and snatched his arm, pulling him to a stop.

"I shouldn't have hit you," he said. "I apologise."

Not sure how to respond and still being choked by the weight in his lungs, he tugged himself free and left without a reply. Athos followed him in silence.

The morning preceded with the same uncomfortable tension hanging over the pain, doubled with their respective illnesses. A bitter part of D'Artagnan took comfort from the knowledge that he wasn't the only one with an aching head but the thought just made the more noble part of him feel even guiltier.

Aramis and Porthos noticed the strained atmosphere but said nothing, apparently deciding that it wasn't their place to ask questions – if only the Gascon had had the same reservations then maybe they wouldn't have this problem. But for all its awkwardness, D'Artagnan's opinion hadn't changed: Athos needed to tell the others about his wife.

Sparring was a painful affair and the young man found himself flagging in every match, wasting opportunities and leaving himself open – had it been a real fight he'd have been dead five times over.

"You're a little worse for wear today," Aramis commented during a short reprieve. "If I didn't know you better, I'd have said that you spent the night searching for the bottom of a wine glass."

D'Artagnan forced a smile and shrugged. "Nothing so foolish, I assure you. A miscalculation, nothing more."

"And Athos?"

He flinched, just a little. "Like I said, a miscalculation."

Aramis was prevented from pressing further by Treville appearing on his balcony and calling for them to gather in his office. Another mission, no doubt; these days seemed to have the musketeers rushed off their feet and all the men had noticed the change.

Thankfully, it wasn't anything too arduous, just the delivery of some papers to a garrison North of the city. With Porthos still healing, they'd been put on light duty (though if anything major popped up in the next few days, they'd be called into help regardless).

Still, it meant several hours riding alongside Athos in which he couldn't bring himself to say a word for fear of getting insulted again or for letting something slip that he shouldn't. It wasn't right that he had to keep such secrets from his friends.

Athos was the one that broke the silence between them, his voice pitched low so that the others wouldn't hear them. "You're angry with me."

"No," he disagreed, resisting the urge to rub at his eyes. He was too tired to have this conversation now. "I'm exhausted and my head hurts and honestly, I don't want to have to think right now."

"But you're still angry with me."

"Why?"

"You just are. Your emotions are all over your face and every time someone so much as mentions my name, you start glaring at something."

"I'm not angry with you. Your choices perhaps, but then, that's none of my business." He wanted to add 'because I'm not a musketeer' to the statement, if only to get a rise out of the elder man but he refrained. There was no point in bringing up a topic that would only end up hurting him.

"You think I should tell them the truth."

"Well, you won't talk to me and you need someone, so, yes, I do."

"I've managed for years without anyone's help. The only reason you know is because I was drunk and heartbroken and you were the only one there." And didn't that just make the Gascon feel special? He tried not to take it personally. "There's no need to tell them."

"Of course not," D'Artagnan snapped back, irritation flaring to life with his already gloomy mood. "What's a few major secrets between friends, right?" He spurred his horse on to escape the conversation, falling into stride with Porthos and starting chatting to him aimlessly for a distraction. He decided then and there that yes, he was angry with Athos.

Athos didn't try and say another word to D'Artagnan until they'd been back in Paris for two days. He grabbed the younger man's arm after training and dragged him into the stables, out of sight of everyone else before he turned on him. "Why is it so important to you that I tell them?"

"Oh, are we talking again now?" It had been a long day and with Athos' absence, Aramis and Porthos seemed less willing to spend their time with the Gascon – he could understand that their loyalty lay with the elder musketeer but it still hurt to know they would abandon him so readily. The knowledge made him sharp edged and short tempered.

"Stow your pride and answer the damn question." Apparently D'Artagnan wasn't the only one who couldn't be bothered with pleasantries.

He sighed heavily. "I already told you. You're not coping. Sometimes talking helps with such things. Maybe it will, maybe it won't but it couldn't hurt and honestly, they're going to find out sooner or later. Maybe if you told them instead of waiting for them to discover it themselves, they might be less offended that you've been keeping such secrets for so many years."

There was a brief flicker of fury on Athos' face and for a moment D'Artagnan thought he was going to get punched again but then the musketeer sagged, his whole body deflating suddenly. "And what exactly do I tell them? That I killed the woman I loved? Only, I apparently didn't even manage that and now she's running around Paris, causing all sorts of terrible things."

"If you start blaming yourself for whatever it is she's doing, I might actually hit you."

"She was my responsibility. I failed in my duty and people have died because of it, including my brother. Don't act like this is not my fault."

"You were betrayed. How could you have possibly known what she was doing? Athos, you loved her. You said that yourself. When we see faults in our loved ones… it's strange. We know that they're there but we don't care because… we love them. In all that they are. The faults are part of the bigger picture and you have to accept them; that's what love is. You couldn't have known what she would become."

Athos was shaking very slightly, looking as though his whole world had just crumbled before his eyes and D'Artagnan's heart broke for him. "If you love someone… you accept them," he repeated slowly.

"Of course."

"And if I tell Aramis and Porthos this… they'll accept it?"

The Gascon blinked in surprise. "Of course they will. Athos, these are the men who saw evidence of murder piling up against you and didn't for one second believe that you might have been involved. They convinced me in under a day that you were worth saving. They would die for you. There is nothing you could tell them that would turn them from you, I promise you that."

Very slowly, Athos nodded. "Okay. Okay, I'll tell them. They deserve to know. I'll tell them."

"There's no need," a voice called from the doorway. They both spun to watch as Aramis and Porthos sauntered in, both looking sheepish but unrepentant. "We heard everything."

Athos looked slightly like he'd been stabbed. "All of it?"

"Yeah, every last word," Porthos chipped in.

"And for what it's worth," Aramis continued, "we're both incredibly angry at you. I mean, did you honestly think that this would be enough for us to turn our backs?"

"Frankly, it's a little insulting."

"Therefore, you're going to come with us to the Wren, buy us a few rounds and tell us everything."

"And we mean everything."

"I didn't even know you had a brother. Maybe we should start there. Perhaps you have an attractive, available sister tucked away somewhere too?"

"And then," Porthos said with a roll of his eyes, "assuming you haven't strangled dear Aramis, we're going to put all of this behind us."

Athos' eyes were following the word volley in blank surprise, trying to comprehend what was happening. D'Artagnan for his part was just mildly amused. "You know, it's actually pretty scary when you two do that."

They grinned at him simultaneously and D'Artagnan actually had to take a step away from the weirdness – it was just a little bit too terrifying for him to deal with.

Athos finally seemed to get his brain working again. "But… you're not angry? You don't even seem surprised!"

"Well, we always knew there was some backstory that you didn't want to talk about but it always seemed best to give you time to tell us."

"Didn't think it would take this long."

"Yeah," Porthos griped. "You lost me ten livres when you didn't tell us after your arrest a few weeks ago."

"You've been betting on this?"

"Porthos and I bet on everything. Including where D'Artagnan got that rather interesting bruise on his jaw…?"

The Gascon's eyes flickered to Athos uncertainly, as though asking permission. "I hit him," the elder man admitted easily. There seemed little point hiding it at this stage.

Aramis practically crowed, a grin splitting his face as Porthos groaned heavily and reached for his coin purse with a sour expression. He continued muttering general curses as he counted out 20 coins into his friend's open palm.

"Pleasure doing business," Aramis said smugly when it was done. Porthos just slapped the back of his head lightly.

"Someone said something about alcohol," Athos said rather desperately. "I think I'm going to need some wine."

He still looked stunned but there were traces of a smile around his mouth and it seemed as though his shoulders sagged less heavily about him. D'Artagnan followed the trio in silence, grinning from ear to ear.