Athos and Aramis sat at the table, watching as Porthos and D'Artagnan threw daggers at a target nailed to one of the cross beams. Both of them were dressed in their breeches, boots and shirtsleeves, as they had been wrestling before turning to knife throwing.

"Who do you think will win this one?" Aramis asked of Athos. Not surprisingly, Porthos had come out ahead during the wrestling matches. D'Artagnan could hold his own, up until the point when Porthos would us brute strength against him.

"D'Artagnan," Athos replied, without hesitation. He had been working with the boy himself, fine tuning D'Artagnan's raw skill into deadly accuracy.

As if on cue, the young Gascon hurled his dagger dead center into the target. He threw his hands up in victory as he turned to Porthos. "I win!"

Porthos looked disgruntled as he stomped over to yank his dagger out. The dagger that was two inches off to the right of the Gascon's. "Lucky throw," he grumbled.

"Three times in a row?" D'Artagnan countered, eyes wide in disbelief. "Just admit it, I'm better at this than you are. I am allowed to be better at something you know." His words were strong in his own defense, but at the same time his tone was a bit wistful. It was hard being the youngest and least experienced Muskateer. Not a day passed where the others didn't take great pleasure of reminding him that he was just a boy with much to learn.

"Well done, D'Artagnan," Aramis called out, as he rose from the table and strode over to clap the younger man on the shoulder.

Which pleased D'Artagnan, as did the nod he received when he glanced over to Athos. "Thanks." He turned back to Porthos. "So, what's next? Muskets?"

Porthos shook his head. "Breakfast. I'm starved." As he spoke he advanced towards D'Artagnan, arms akimbo.

"Oh no!" D'Artagnan protested, backpedalling away from the other man. He knew Porthos intent, to tackle him and demand surrender so that he could end their competition with a win in his favor. It was time to retreat. Another thing D'Artagnan had over Porthos was speed. So he spun on his heel with the intention to step around Porthos and race up the stairs, only to find himself snagged to a dead stop by a beefy fingers tangled in the end of his shirt. Unwilling to simply give in, D'Artagnan pulled sharply away, only to stop and gasp as he heard the distinctive sound of tearing.

"Whoops!" Porthos released his grip at once and made a face. "Sorry about that."

Grabbing the edge of his shirt, D'Artagnan inspected the damage. The tear was at least six inches long and ragged. Heaving a sigh of disappointment he mumbled, "I only have one shirt left." He'd had two spares but just two weeks ago he'd had to toss one. During a skirmish with some outlaws, while on a mission for the King, an enemy blade had sliced across D'Artagnan's shoulder and by the time he had dispatched with his foe, his shirtsleeve had been saturated with blood. No amount of soaking had worked to lift the stain, so the shirt had gone to the stables and ripped into strips to be used as rags for cleaning tack.

Feeling guilty, Porthos spoke without thinking. "I bet Madame Bonacieux could sew it up for you." The moment the words left his mouth he realized his faux pas and tried to backtrack. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean...that is..." Heaving a sigh, Porthos scratched the back of his skull and tried to make amends. "I have a shirt that's too small for me. It's yours." Grabbing D'Artagnan by the arm, he hauled the Gascon to his room, with Aramis and Athos following close behind.

"So when are you going to clean in here?" Aramis queried, as he stepped over a hat and a pair of boots.

"I cleaned last night," Porthos countered, his voice a bit muffled since he was bent over a trunk in the corner, pawing through the contents. A moment later he straightened up, holding the shirt up in triumph. "Here." He tossed it to D'Artagnan. "Try it on."

Catching the shirt instinctively, D'Artagnan stared at it for a moment before shaking his head. "You don't have to give me a shirt, Porthos. I'll make due with what I have." And he would have to do just that because it would take some time to save up enough to have another made.

Porthos strode over to D'Artagnan, one big hand lift to cuff him on the back of the head, as seemed to be his habit whenever he disliked something the younger Musketeer said or did. "Do as I say and try it on. It's just taking up room in my trunk so you might as well have use of it."

"Fine." Peeling off the ripped shirt, D'Artagnan shrugged the other one on, surprised to see that it fit him quite well."

"When on Earth did this ever fit you?" Aramis asked Porthos, as he stepped a circle around the young Gascon, who was fussing around with tying the laces.

Porthos shrugged, a big grin splitting his face before he replied, "I believe I was twelve."

D'Artagnan heard him, realized he was being teased yet again, and turned to glare at the big Musketeer. "I'm pretty sure I hate you!" he snapped.

"It's not my fault that you're such a wee thing," Porthos countered, laughing.

"Don't listen to Porthos," Aramis interjected, moving to D'Artagnan's side and clapping him on the shoulder in a show of solidarity. He then bent over and scooped up the ripped shirt. He studied it with his surgeon's eye and offered, "I could mend this for you, if you like."

D'Artagnan was touched by the offer, but he shook his head as he took possession of his shirt back. "Thank you, but I'll take care of it."

A figured appeared in the doorway, Treville's aide. "The Captain would like to see all of you in his office," he announced.

Without another word, the Musketeers headed off.

After a quick mission on King's business along with his fellow Musketeers, D'Artagnan found himself in his room. He sat on a stool by the table, and under the light of several candles, he worked on mending his shirt. A knock on the door startled him, making him prick his finger with the needle. Cursing, he set the shirt aside and sucking on his finger, he moved to open the door.

It was Athos who stood on the other side, holding a paper covered package. "May I come in?' he asked, when D'Artagnan simply stood there, staring.

"Of course." Silently chiding himself for his bad manners, D'Artagnan stepped aside.

"This is for you," Athos said, holding out the package once he was inside the the door was closed.

D'Artagnan accepted the package but did little more than stare at it. "What is it?"

Athos chuckled. "Consider it an early birthday present."

"But you don't know when my birthday is," D'Artagnan protested. He felt awkard and uncertain. It wasn't like Athos to give gifts to anyone. So why would he offer one to D'Artagnan?

"A late present then," Athos countered, still looking amused. "Go on, open it."

D'Artagnan stared at the older man for a moment, before exhaling softly. He squeezed the package, hearing the paper crinkle but feeling softness. So nothing solid then, which would explain why it felt relatively light. Hearing Athos pointedly clear his throat, D'Artagnan realized he was stalling. So he moved back to his stool, sitting down before he ripped open the paper to reveal two, beautiful linen shirts, almost blinding in their whiteness. D'Artagnan's mouth fell open. "I...I can't accept these."

Athos locked eyes with him, his own solemn. "You can, and you will. For if you do not I will take it as a personal offense."

"But the cost -"

"They belonged to my brother." Athos cut him off with those softly spoken words.

D'Artagnan stood and went to Athos, offering the shirts back. "All the more reason why I cannot accept them."

Athos closed his own hands over D'Artagnan's, making him keep hold of the shirts. "I kept them to remind me of Thomas...but for the wrong reasons. I need to move forward, D'Artagnan. So please, allow me to do this."

"Thank you." There was nothing else that D'Artagnan could do but accept the shirts, graciously. He finally understood what Athos was trying to do in giving them to him. It touched him on many levels. First that Athos thought enough of him to gift him with something so precious. But also that he was trusting D'Artagnan with his thoughts and feelings. That meant almost more than the gift itself.

"My pleasure," Athos replied, tilting his head in a slight nod as he locked eyes with D'Artagnan. Acknowledging that he understood his message was received and accepted for what it was meant to be. Communicating without needing actual words. Dropping his hands, he turned back to the door. "I'm on my way to join Porthos and Aramis at the Tavern. Would you care to join us?"

D'Artagnan pointed to his torn shirt. "Perhaps later. I wish to finish this first."

Athos nodded. "Goodnight then." And with that said he glided out, gently closing the door behind him.

Smiling, D'Artagnan laid his new shirts out on his bed, carefully folding them before rewrapping them in the scraps of paper. He brushed his fingertips over the fine linen and admired the intricate stitching before placing them gently in the small chest at the foot of his bed.

Returning to sit at his table, D'Artagnan felt content. Not a day passed when he did not feel the loss of his father and his farm, but with the Musketeers he was starting to find a place he could call home.

Early the next morning, D'Artagnan found himself alone at the table, munching on a baguette. He was starting to worry about his friends when Aramis came strolling over.

"You look bright-eyed and busy-tailed this morning, D'Artagnan,!" Aramis offered in greeting.

"I got a good night's sleep," D'Artagnan allowed. Once he'd finished with his task, he'd gone to bed instead of joining his friends at the tavern. "Where are the others? I was supposed to spar with Porthos again this morning."

Aramis sat down, a grin splitting his face. "I do believe Porthos is sleeping off the excess of wine that he consumed last night and Athos is with Treville. They should be joining us shortly." As he spoke, Aramis studied D'Artagnan, finally reaching out to snag the back of his shirt. He leaned over and was studiously quiet for a long moment before stating, "Nice stitching."

D'Artagnan shrugged. "My Mother made me learn."

"You never said." Aramis looked intrigued.

"It never came up." D'Artagnan felt a ripple of sadness wash over him. "She died when I was fourteen. She was wonderful." A smile curved his lips at the memories that danced through his head. "When I was a child I told her I wanted to be a Pirate. So she said I'd best learn stitching so that I could mend the sails as need be. It was two years before I realized she just wanted me to do the mending for her."

Aramis chuckled. "She sounds like an amazing woman. I wish I'd had the privilege of meeting her."

D'Artagnan laughed as well. "She would have labeled you a charming rogue and probably given you a good thump for good measure."

"She would have been correct," Aramis conceded. He tapped the stitching on D'Artagnan's shirt. "She taught you well, lad. You can put such a skill to good use." Before he could say anything more, they were distracted by the sound of footsteps.

"Get your things and finish dressing," Athos called out, as he descended the stairs. His latter comment was meant for D'Artagnan as he was only in his shirtsleeves. "We have a mission!"

D'Artagnan jumped to his feet and headed for his room. "I'll be just a minute," he shouted over his shoulder.

"I'll get Porthos," Aramis offered.

Ten minutes later they were mounted and riding out of the Garrison.

The mission was simple enough. Rescue the son of a Viscount, who was in possession of a journal that contained important information that the King was eager to get his hands on.

The Musketeers made short work of rescuing the boy who was being held at an Inn just outside of Paris. But the men holding the boy hostage put up a bit of a fight, resulting in Aramis getting slashed across his right forearm. The wound wasn't life-threatening, but it was a few inches long and deep enough that it would not stop bleeding without stitching. Since Aramis was right-handed, he would not be able to stitch it closed himself.

"I'll do it," Porthos offered, reaching for the needle and thread he'd fetched from Aramis' saddlebag.

"No." Aramis pulled the pouch out of reach of his friend. "If you don't mind, I'd like D'Artagnan to do the honors."

At hearing his name, D'Artagnan went pale. "Oh, no! No! I can't do it!" He felt ill at the very thought of stitching up the other man. Or any man. Sewing a shirt or sheets or blankets was one thing. Even stitching a cut on a horses leg was doable. But he could not willingly hurt his friend.

Aramis smiled at D'Artagnan, his expression serene. "You can do this, my friend. I know you can, you know you can. I trust no one else."

"Who usually stitches you up?" D'Artagnan countered, unwilling to give in. He figured he could turn this back around quite easily. Because, someone had to have stitched Aramis up in the past. If not Porthos, then D'Artagnan figured it had to be Athos.

"I ususally stitch myself up," Aramis replied, dousing D'Artagnan's hope like a bucket of water tossed on a flame. "Porthos always offers, but if you saw his stitch work you would understand my reluctance to have him do it."

D'Artagnan would concede to Aramis on this point, but there was still another option. "And Athos?"

Aramis grinned. "He tried once. Passed out at my feet."

"Seriously?" D'Artagnan glanced over to Athos to see if he would argue Aramis' words.

"True enough," Athos drawled. "But in my defense, I was ill at the time."

Aramis reached out with his good hand, his fingers latching onto D'Artagnan's shoulder. "I trust you to do this and to leave me with a dashing scar, rather than something crude and ugly. Is that too much to ask?"

D'Artagnan could not refuse when he put his request so succinctly. "I'll do it," he allowed. "But no promises as to the outcome. And you can't yell at me if it's awful."

"Agreed." Aramis squeezed D'Artagnan's shoulder then moved away to sit at the table. They were still at the Inn where they had rescued the Viscount's son.

Who was presently tied to a nearby chair, so he would attempt to run off again. Turns out he wasn't really being held hostage, but he had run away with the journal, hoping to sell it's secrets to the highest bidder.

Moving to sit across from Aramis, D'Artagnan grabbed a bottle of whiskey and doused the needle, and his fingers, before threading it carefully. "Ready?" he asked, but not waiting for a reply before he poured a good measure of the whiskey over Aramis' open wound. He winced at the cursing that colored the air, but he was grinning as he set to his task.

"Never heard you cuss like that before," Porthos commented to Aramis. "I thought you were going to cry like a baby."

"Whiskey on an open wound is a bit painful," Aramis hissed back. "Not that you would know. You've been unconscious every time I've stitched you up."

Porthos got offended. "That's because you keep knocking me out. I finally caught on to your ways."

Athos was seated next to Aramis, but he looked up at Porthos and drawled, "We would not have to go to such lengths if you were not such a baby when it comes to the sight of your own blood."

"Quiet, the lot of you," D'Artagnan interjected. He was trying to concentrate on making neat and tiny stitches, but the banter between the others was distracting.

"Sorry," Porthos replied, plopping into the chair next to the young Gascon and leaning over his shoulder.

D'Artagnan elbowed him in the chest. "You're in my light."

Porthos snorted. "Bossy little boy, aren't you?"

"If you don't shut up I will stab you in the eye with this bloody needle," D'Artagnan threatened, without looking up from his task. His tone was mild as well, because he felt oddly calm in this moment, but his intent was clear apparently, because Porthos jumped out of his chair and stepped over to the far corner.

"Nicely done," Aramis praised, grimacing a bit. Getting stitched hurt like a bastard and he much preferred doing the sewing, but it was good to know that D'Artagnan would be able to take care of him in the future. If need be.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "I wouldn't have really stabbed him though. I don't think." He fell silent, tongue sticking out a bit as he concentrated on tying off a perfect knot.

Aramis shook his head, grinning. "I actually meant your stitching was nicely done, but the threat was quite good as well."

"Done." D'Artagnan set the needle and thread aside and clasped his hands together. All of the sudden he found himself trembling.

"Your stitches are nearly as fine as Aramis'." It was Athos who offered the compliment.

D'Artagnan rose from his chair, his legs wobbling to the point where he had to catch himself on the table edge. He heard voices drifting around him, calling his name, and he wanted to tell them that he was fine. Only he couldn't make his mouth work. He couldn't make a sound. All he could do was fall into darkness.

When D'Artagnan came back to awareness, it was to the sound of soft humming. His head ached, and he lay still, trying to gauge his surroundings before opening his eyes. He was lying on a rather lumpy mattress and he could tell he was only in his shirt and breeches. He was warm and he felt the draped weight of a blanket over him. Forcing his eyes open, D'Artagnan blinked rapidly to bring his surroundings into focus.

He had to turn his head a bit to figure out where the humming was coming from. Not surprisingly, Aramis was stretched out in a chair next to the bed, his head tilted back and his hat over his face. But as if sensing eyes upon him, the Musketeer grabbed his hat and sat up.

"D'Artagnan. Good to see you awake, lad," Aramis exclaimed. Rising from the chair, he moved to sit on the side of the bed. With one hand cradling the Gascon's face, he lifted the other and held it before D'Artagnan's line of sight. "Tell me, how many fingers am I holding up?"

"One," D'Artagnan replied, readily enough, although he had to squint to be sure because he had a feeling he was being tested.

Aramis nodded, looking pleased. "Before you even think about getting up, don't. You need to rest."

D'Artagnan frowned. Apparently Aramis could read his mind. He let his body relax against the mattress, figuring he'd get up when the other man wasn't paying attention. "What happened?"

"What do you remember?" Aramis countered, returning to his chair.

"I stitched you up," D'Artagnan replied. "Didn't I?" Suddenly he was wondering if that had only been a dream.

Aramis held up his right arm, showing a bandage wrapped around it. "Indeed you did. I'll have a perfect scar."

D'Artagnan smiled. "Glad I could be of service." The frown disappeared as he remembered the rest. "I passed out, didn't I?"

"You did," Aramis confirmed. "And you gave us all a scare. Why didn't you mention being injured?"

"I didn't realize it mattered." That was all the defense D'Artagnan had. He vaguely remembered being hit on the back of the head, perhaps by a musket stock, but he'd shaken it off and kept fighting, taking out his opponent.

Aramis patted him on the shoulder. "That happens sometimes. In the heat of battle you feel pumped up and your body doesn't feel the injuries until later. You'll be fine with some rest."

D'Artagnan took a chance on sitting up, ignoring Aramis' scowl. He figured sitting up wasn't the same as getting up. "Where are the others?" It was quite obvious that Porthos and Athos were scarce.

"They took that stupid boy back to Paris to face the King," Aramis replied. "I'm not sorry to miss that, actually. You and I will head out tomorrow."

"Are you okay?" D'Artagnan thought to ask.

Aramis nodded. "I'm fine. As I said, you did a good job. It's a useful skill to have in the field." He studied D'Artagnan for a moment. "I could teach you some other things, if you like. I wouldn't mind having you as back up."

D'Artagnan considered. He didn't like to think about needing to stitch his friends up or tend to their wounds, but at the same time it would be good, knowing he could help them. And to make help ease some of the burden that Aramis carried. "I'd like that," D'Artagnan stated.

"Good." Aramis looked pleased. "We'll start your training when we get back. I'll teach you how to recognize the signs of a concussion." He eyed D'Artagnan pointedly as he spoke.

"Message received," D'Artagnan conceded, before stifling a jaw-breaking yawn behind one hand. His eyelids felt weighted and he found himself fighting to keep them open.

Aramis nudged him back down, smoothing the blanket over the other man, before tenderly brushing a stray lock of dark hair from D'Artagnan's forehead. "Rest well," he beseeched the young Musketeer. "Sweet dreams."

And dream sweetly D'Artagnan did. Dreams of sitting as his Mother's feet, a length of linen in hand and stitching neat rows as she sang softly to him.

THE END