A.N: I wrote most of this as a warmup for my daily writing, so it's not precisely what I would call good, but it is definitely h/c, and I thought some of you might enjoy it. :)

And All Is Well

Porthos sees the boy smile at Athos's back and has to work hard to hide a grin himself as he follows the two of them out of the prison and onto the street where they left their horses. The horses which they rode hard enough from the outskirts of Paris to the palace and to here in order to save Athos from the shooting squad.

"Poor beasts," he hears Aramis mutter when they catch sight of the exhausted animals.

Porthos shrugs and leads his horse away by the bridle. "Eh, walking back won't hurt us."

Athos is with them, and well and whole, and all is right with the world; Porthos doesn't mind basking in the relief a bit longer, and if they happen to pass by a tavern on their way back to the garrison and decide to give both them and the horses a bit of a breather-well, what Treville never knows will never hurt him.

They're halfway back when Porthos turns back to ask Athos how the warden treated him and catches a glimpse of the boy out of the corner of his eye instead.

"Aramis." Porthos speaks low enough the boy won't hear him and jerks his head in d'Artagnan's direction.

Aramis glances at him, glances at the boy, and inconspicuously slows his gait until he's walking at d'Artagnan's side. Athos, behind the two of them, takes one look at d'Artagnan and raises his eyebrow at the hitched breaths and suddenly green complexion their new companion's taken on since they smiled at each other in the prison yard. He lengthens his own stride and comes up next to Porthos. Porthos hands off Lady's reigns without comment and drops back to join Aramis at d'Artagnan's other side. Just in case.

"So, it's been some long trip from Gascony, eh?" Aramis smiles at the boy, and only Porthos notices his eyes sweeping up and down d'Artagnan's form and conducting as thorough an examination as can be made without undressing the boy. Exhaustion is obvious; he and Aramis are fair tired as well, and Porthos imagines they've gotten a bit more sleep than d'Artagnan recently, even with their little trip to clear Athos. The bags under d'Artagnan's eyes tell that tale well enough. The shirt hides what Porthos is really worried about, and he didn't get a good look when he and Aramis burst into Bonacieux's, but it's clear there's something wrong with the boy's ribs, and riding hard and playing at swords can't have made d'Artagnan feel any better.

d'Artagnan shrugs and hunches forward unconsciously over his ribs. Porthos and Aramis share a look over d'Artagnan's head and move in closer.

"Some introduction to Paris," Aramis continues.

Up ahead of them, Athos leads both horses down a side street, away from the direction of the garrison but towards the apartment he keeps on Rue Lepic.

Aramis mouths 'shortcut' to d'Artagnan. "Once you've had some rest, we'll show you around the place."

"Aye, we'll give you a proper tour." Porthos leans in closer as d'Artagnan's gait grows steadily unsteadier over the rough, hard-packed dirt of the winding lane. "All the best taverns.

There's sweat running down d'Artagnan's brow, now, and when he nods his head in answer his whole body sways a little. Porthos looks up as Athos stops in front of him and realizes he's never been so glad to see the dingy house in front of him.

"But first," Aramis says, "How about you get some rest and let me take a look at you? I've practice at that sort of thing."

At this d'Artagnan's head swings up, and he opens his mouth to say what Porthos is sure will be something truly moronic such as 'I'm fine,' or 'Thank you, but I've got to go,' or 'Oh, I wouldn't want to bother you,' but moving so quickly unbalances him, and his eyes choose that moment to roll up in his head, and the boy swoons into Porthos's arms like a maiden.

"And that is not what I would call an exit," Aramis mutters as he trusts his horse into the care of a nearby stable boy, "But it'll have to do."

The boy stays unconscious through Porthos slinging him over his shoulders and tromping up the stairs, much to the surprise of Athos's long-suffering landlady, who lets loose a feminine squeak at the sight and flutters out of Porthos's way without a word.

Athos holds open the door to his room and gestures at his bed.

"How is he?" he asks.

Porthos sets d'Artagnan gently down and stretches his shoulders when he's done.

"Light," he mutters. He thinks of how thin the boy felt when Porthos lifted him, the knobby shoulders that poked him in his back. "Too light. Boy needs to fatten up a bit. Figure we'll let that Bonacieux lady at him once we're done."

Athos nods, and he stands still at the door as Aramis enters and doesn't move towards the face-which usually masks everything he wants-is open as a book.

"'s not your fault." Porthos holds d'Artagnan as Aramis wrestles the shirt off him, then steps back and waits for Aramis's orders as the other man unwinds the bandages from around d'Artagnan's stomach.

"That's certainly true." Aramis speaks under his breath, engrossed in his task but not so much that he is blind or deaf to Athos's guilt. "You should have seen him fight Gaudet. He would have gone after his father's killer regardless of his health, and-if you hadn't been in prison and we hadn't been there with him, he probably would have-ah."

The bandages finally off, Aramis purses his lips at the black and blue mess of bruises over d'Artagnan's ribs. He pokes and prods and shakes his head. "Broken, and I'll say he's lucky it didn't make him bleed inside and kill him. Ought to be in bed until he's well, not riding about and fighting."

Porthos whistles under his breath, and Athos finally abandons his post by the door to close it in case his landlady comes by.

"Did a right good job of it, though. He'd be useful, in a fight."

Athos gives him a look, but Porthos only smiles blandly and turns back to watch Aramis's fingers rubbing ointment over the worst of d'Artagnan's bruises.

The boy moans, and his eyes flutter at Aramis's feather touch, but he doesn't wake from what Porthos assumes is only sleep.

"He'll have business in Gascony, I'm sure," Athos says. He sits down at the table and grabs a half-empty bottle of wine. Porthos reaches out and snags it, taking a swig before Athos can complain.

"He mentioned he has no family, actually." Aramis straightens and snaps his fingers, which, still slick with the ointment, only slide together to his chagrin. Porthos snorts and rifles through one of Athos' trunks for a bandage.

Athos shrugs. "He's free to do what he likes, of course; I'm not the boy's keeper."

Porthos is sure he's not supposed to see Aramis roll his eyes as they both bend over d'Artagnan. Porthos grabs d'Artagnan by the shoulders and holds him up high enough that Aramis can wrap the bandages around him again.

It doesn't take long of this manhandling for d'Artagnan to moan again and shift and wake.

"Wha-"

Porthos grabs his arm before he can flail out with it and smack Aramis in the eye.

"If you'd told me you had broken ribs," Aramis mutters darkly, "I could at least have given you some ointment and some willow bark to chew on, you idiot."

D'Artagnan swallows, breathes, and certainly doesn't whimper as Aramis ties off the bandage. He does squirm out of Porthos's hold like a particularly skinny squid, however, and eyes the two of them with what might almost be called a pout.

"I'm fine," he mutters. It would sound far more impressive than it does if he didn't yawn in the middle of it, and his cheeks color just a bit. "I had other things to worry about."

Athos at the table snorts, and Porthos grabs the new bottle from his hands without looking. Athos huffs in more amusement than irritation, but he says nothing.

Aramis for his part leans back and crosses his arms, and Porthos pats d'Artagnan's shoulder in unstated sympathy. He knows that look on Aramis's face, and there's no getting out of it.

"A day of bed rest," Aramis proclaims, and, when d'Artagnan opens his mouth to protest, scowls. "At least. I will tie you to the bed if I have to, ask them if I won't."

Athos winces at the memory, and Porthos lets him keep the bottle he's scrounged up from the underneath a blanket in one of his trunks.

Porthos sighs. "But after that, we'll take you on that tour. Show you the best taverns and the best houses of-"

"What Porthos means to say," Athos cuts in, "Is thank you. And now he'll go buy us some wine to celebrate."

Porthos scowls. He almost doesn't take the coin Athos tosses at him, but he catches Aramis's knowing smirk first. Athos didn't say they wouldn't take d'Artagnan around, which means he doesn't mind the boy's staying in Paris.

Which means there might be some hope for the man's hard little heart after all.

So Porthos catches the coin and sets off for some wine with lightness in his own heart that he hasn't felt in quite some time. Athos is well and safe, they've found a new friend, and all is well with the world.