Author's Note:

This is another entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires March's challenge, themed "Idle Hands." What do our boys get up to during their downtime? This tale can stand alone from the first story called 'Never Too Old to Learn' and the second entitled 'Archimedes Principle'.

As always, not mine, just playing. Please feel free to comment, as I am a review junky. My awesome beta JenF makes all my stories a lot more readable and I am always grateful for her assistance. Special kudo's this time, as she proofed in record time so it could get posted before the deadline.

If you are curious about Athos' behavior in this story, feel free to check out 'Not Easily Broken'. That is where the backstory is explained.

"Captain," the slimy voice of Rochefort slithered down the white marble staircase Treville was traversing to leave the palace. He had just come out of a tedious session with the King regarding what the Captain felt was an ill-advised soirée but, as usual, he was unable to sway the puerile monarch. After that futile discourse, the last thing he felt like doing was conversing with Rochefort who didn't make the top ten on his list of favorite government officials. However, the man was the First Minister of France and the Captain really had no recourse other than to pause his descent and politely wait. The man with the slicked-back blond hair came to a halt two steps above where Treville stood, making the visual point that he, Rochefort, was more important than the mere Captain of the Musketeers.

"There have been rumors, Captain. Ugly rumors involving your men shackling each other." Rochefort's tone insinuated a very debauched usage of those chains. "What your men chose to do in their private time is of no interest to me, except," he held up a finger to silence Treville, who appeared as if he were about to interrupt, "when it reflects poorly upon the King. We can't have it said that the King's Musketeer's, his Majesty's so called elite guards, are a bunch of deviants now can we."

Again, the bejeweled hand silenced the Captain from offering a rebuttal.

"If your men must continue with their perversities, which as a devoted Catholic I cannot condone, please ensure it is kept private even if a flogging and court martial would be the more appropriate solution."

With that, Rochefort spun on his heel and ascended the stairs giving Treville no time to offer any sort of explanation, even if he had one.

"A devoted Catholic who lies, cheats, and murders in cold blood is offended by perversities," Treville muttered under his breath, as he continued on his way to the stables.

Collecting his horse, he rode back towards the garrison wondering the cause of this latest rumor. No doubt, it was his famed four, as usual, that somehow were involved with this debacle. Time and time again, he had tried to explain to them the consequences of their wayward actions and yet their ability to get into trouble knew no bounds. As his father would have said, lecturing them was like pissing into the wind.

A few weeks earlier.

After removing their weaponry, each musketeer staked out a seat in Porthos' room at the garrison. Aramis chose the bed and was lounging on it as if he planned to take a nap. Athos claimed one of the two chairs at the small table in the corner of the stone walled room, leaning back in his seat and observing the rest of his brethren. D'Artagnan had started for the second chair at the table, but a pointed look from Athos had him reconsidering his seating options. It was unclear to the lad if Athos was saving the seat for Porthos or simply didn't want any company, the latter quite in keeping with the swordsman's general demeanor. With a light sigh, the Gascon dropped to the hard floor near the bed, using the wooden frame as a back rest. Affectionately or annoyingly, depending on your point of view, Aramis' hand crept over the edge of the mattress to ruffle the boy's hair eliciting an eye roll and louder sigh from the boy on the ground.

While the other three were settling about the room, Porthos walked over to a battered, wooden chest against the far wall, lifted the lid, and rummaged around inside. The odd sound of rattling metal was emanating from the trunk, causing the other three musketeers to focus their attention, with curiosity, in his direction. The big man hadn't enlightened them as to what skill he was planning on teaching yet and the noise coming from the chest wasn't suggesting anything obvious. When his large hand held up the first leg iron, there was a collective gasp from two of the three musketeers, but it was the lack of reaction from the third man that worried Porthos the most and it was there he rested eyes as he held the shackles aloft.

"Are those what they seem to be?" Aramis cautiously asked, his eyes traveling down the metal links to the twin open cuffs at the bottom.

"Leg irons, Oi," Porthos replied slowly, his eyes never leaving Athos' face, which seemed impassive, unless you peered deep into the hooded green eyes, which were telling an entirely different story.

"Isn't it rather odd," Aramis continued haltingly, "to have such... devices... in your room?"

"I borrowed them for this assignment from the smithy in town, the one who makes them for the prison." Moving across the room with one set of leg irons, he handed them to D'Artagnan, who took the metal object gingerly. The rattling they made was obscenely loud and disturbing within the confines of the small room.

Returning to the chest, Porthos drew forth another set of shackles and walked them over to Aramis, who, like the Gascon, accepted it with caution, as if it were a snake. One last trip to the trunk and Porthos took out the last two sets and deliberately walked over to the table where Athos resided and laid the pair of leg irons on the scarred wooden table top. He detected a slight hitch in Athos' breath, as the rusty iron chains clinked against each other as he set them down.

"You gonna be alright?" Porthos quietly asked his friend. The last time he and the swordsman had worn a set of these they had nearly died.

"When I was in the Chatelet, only my hands were imprisoned," he answered evasively, even though he knew that Porthos was referring to an earlier imprisonment they'd both suffered.

Porthos' eyes indicated he was concerned about his brother's mental well-being, but out of respect wouldn't push the issue. It had been a traumatic experience, for both of them, one that was best left in the past even though he suspected Athos, like himself, still had the occasional nightmare. "If it becomes too much..."

'It won't," the stoic man inserted before Porthos could even complete his sentence.

Reaching over, he placed a hand on Athos' shoulder. "Sometimes, the mere whiff of salt air and the rattle of metal …" he dropped his head and shook it sadly.

"Haunt me too," Athos hoarsely croaked, as he also bowed his head.

D'Artagnan craned his neck to look up at Aramis, who was on the bed behind him. "What are they talking about? What happened to them?"

Aramis lowered his voice to explain. "After Savoy, when I was still recovering, the Captain sent them on a mission even though Athos wasn't a musketeer at the time. It didn't go well. I only saw the aftermath, but what actually occurred... they don't speak much about it."

Porthos raised his head and cleared his throat. "Alright. Let's get on with this. I'm gonna teach you how to pick a lock. I thought we'd start with leg irons since we have all had the pleasure of wearing them in the past."

Moving back to the trunk, he took out a leather bag, opened it, and shook the contents in the palm of his hand. Throwing the small satchel back into the trunk, he went to each man and handed them a thin piece of metal with a slightly bent tip.

"This is a lock pick. Manipulate it correctly and it will open your locked item." Porthos picked up the leg irons, snapped them shut and, like a magician proving his point, pulled on them to show they were indeed locked. Inserting the pick in the key hole, he gave a few deft twists and the cuffs on the leg irons sprang open.

Aramis and D'Artagnan straightened up, their interest piqued at how simple their friend had made it seen. Athos, on the other hand, folded into himself, as he scowled at the demonstration. Eagerly, D'Artagnan closed his shackles, inserted the pick, and gave a few twists, but the locks remained secured.

Porthos gave a small snort. "Not as easy as it looks, pup. You forget I've been doing this for a long time. There is a knack to it. Some people can get it, some can't. It's not like floating that everyone can do." The street fighter glanced over at Athos to see if his joke helped lighten the man's mood, but it hadn't, and if anything, Athos appeared angrier.

D'Artagnan and Aramis immediately fell upon their locks trying to imitate Porthos' success. The orphan of the streets explained that there was a notch that would release the pin in a padlock, and if pressed correctly, would free a bar allowing the lock to release. Porthos moved over near the bed, squatted, and tried to help them 'feel' what they needed to do to accomplish the task.

Athos continued to glare at the leg irons on the table in front of him, refusing even to touch the shackles. Though he was staring at the table, he wasn't seeing the irons, but rather a scene from his past. The sounds, the smells, the cries all echoed painfully through his lost-in-the-past mind. Without warning, he rose from his chair so violently it fell over backwards and slammed to the floor with a loud bang. Like the devil was chasing him, he rushed to the door, flung it open, and hurried off into the night.

When the chair crashed to the floor, the other three musketeers' heads shot up in time to see their fourth storming away. Porthos and Aramis exchanged a worried glance and held one of those silent conversations that were so prevalent amongst the Inseparables. Eventually, Porthos nodded and headed after Athos and Aramis laid a restraining hand on D'Artagnan when it appeared he might try to follow.

"They have to work this out between the two of them," Aramis explained gently, knowing the boy's urge to follow was driven by concern for his brothers. "We'll keep practicing and maybe we will have something to show Porthos upon his return."

The Gascon slowly nodded, eyes still tracking to the door. He couldn't help noting that Aramis made no mention that Athos would also return. Something from the past that he was unaware of was obviously driving the scene he had just witnessed. Glancing at Aramis in askance, the marksman simply picked up his tool and began working on the lock, refusing to enlighten the boy any further. With a frustrated sigh, the lad tore his eyes from the empty doorway and set upon the task at hand.

Athos was vibrating with pent up emotion as he exited Porthos' room and made his way toward the courtyard. He was wound tighter than a proverbial clock and he felt like one more twist would cause him to explode into a thousand pieces. Athos had no clue where he was headed, only knowing he had to escape the memories flooding his mind, the raw emotions that were tearing at his soul, and the man that triggered the turmoil, Porthos.

As he was blindly walking, suddenly he felt a hand grip his shoulder. Instincts immediately kicked in. Too close, to draw his sword, he whipped his main gauche from the small of his back and spun around to meet the unknown danger.

"You gonna stab me?" Porthos coolly asked, as Athos brought his knife to bear on him. For a split second, fear unexpectedly crept up Porthos' spine, when he saw no sign of recognition in his brother's anguished green eyes. "Athos. It's me. Porthos. Your brother."

Tense moments passed until a small spark of cognizance reappeared in Athos' eyes and he slowly lowered the blade to his side. Relieved, Porthos let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. Abruptly, the swordsman sheathed his dagger, spun on his heels, and hurried towards the stable, which, except for the horses, was deserted since it was evening.

"Athos wait," Porthos demanded, as he reached out again to capture his friend's shoulder.

With a low, guttural growl, Athos whipped around and smacked Porthos' hand away. "Leave me. I need to be alone."

Folding his arms across his massive chest, the street fighter stared down at the other musketeer. "That is the last thing you need."

"For heaven's sake, I nearly stabbed you! Go, before I hurt you," Athos cajoled his friend who stubbornly refused to move. With a frustrated sigh, he whirled away and entered the stable, the familiar smell of horses and hay, which was usually comforting, went unnoticed as he strode down the packed dirt aisle.

Porthos followed along behind him, coming to stop at his side when Athos finally halted and leaned against the wall near an empty stall. His breathing was harsh, his shoulders were trembling, and he deliberately kept his back to the street fighter.

"Could you always do that...pick a lock," Athos implored, desperately hoping he wasn't going to here an affirmative answer even though he knew it was a fool's wish.

"Oi. In the Court of Miracles. I was driven to learn because of the stories that my mother used to tell me about slaves chained to the deck of the ships so they couldn't escape. Somehow, it made me want to learn, in case, I suppose." Porthos' eyes grew dark driven by the loathing of how his ancestors were treated. "It's wrong."

Athos ran a trembling hand through his mussed hair, as he tried to rationalize what he had been told. Unable to bear it, he spun around and lifted his tortured eyes to meet those of Porthos. "How could you...if you knew how..." Athos choked over the words he was trying to get out. "Why didn't you...all that suffering..."

Athos couldn't continue as he squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head, his voice so full of anguish that it sounded as if his very soul was being ripped from his body. The distressed man was trembling from head to toe and it was only the wall that was keeping him upright.

"Athos. I don't understand. What are you trying to say?" Porthos cried out, pleading with his brother to enlighten him.

Taking a shaky deep breath, Athos slowly raised his head to stare at Porthos. As he spoke, his voice grew as hard and cold as glacial ice. "You could have saved them," he accused, his voice conveying his disillusionment.

Porthos returned the stare, dumbfounded. Then, it hit him and his face crumbled. "Oh my God, no Athos. I couldn't."

"You seemed to have no trouble a minute ago," Athos practically spat at his brother.

Hurt crept into Porthos' voice. "Do you think so little of me, brother, that you believe me capable of leaving people to die, like that? Me, of all people?"

The emotional fog in Athos' head finally began to clear, making him realize what he had accused Porthos of, and shame flushed his body. "Forgive me, Porthos. I wasn't thinking clearly."

Porthos stood very still for a moment letting his mind go back to that event he normally kept shuttered away because it was so distressing. He let the emotions from that horror flood his soul for a moment and it overwhelmed him. Then the hurt and anger he felt from Athos' accusation washed away, as he came to the understanding of what drove the man to make that horrid allegation.

Athos stood there looking so miserable that compassion made the larger man reach over and draw the swordsman into an all-encompassing embrace. For once, the taciturn man let go, burying his head in his brother's leather clad shoulder and freely accepting the comfort being offered. "I'm so sorry. The memories... they... I know you could never..."

Porthos drew the dolorous man in tighter against his body. "I get it. If I picked open leg irons now, why didn't I do it then?" After taking a deep breath, Porthos exhaled noisily. "God knows I wanted to." He released his hold on Athos and held him an arm's length from his body. "But I didn't have my picks. They were in my boots. And I couldn't find anything else suitable."

The owner of the green eyes slowly nodded in comprehension. "We were barefooted. When we arrived."

"It still haunts my dreams. Not being able to free them. What happened to you? We survived," Porthos solemnly intoned, "but we will never forget."

"We did. And Michel was brought to justice," Athos reminded him, "though it hasn't stopped."

"No it hasn't." Releasing his hold on the shorter man, Porthos took a step back. "I'm sorry Athos. Teaching everyone how to a pick lock, it was a stupid idea."

The left corner of Athos' mouth rose a bit. "No. It was a good idea. The only thing stupid was me, once again, letting my past get in the way of my future and for that I apologize." He dipped his head a little to convey his sincerity. "This skill, if we can master it, will serve us well in our adventures."

Porthos still appeared hesitant about continuing the lessons. "It's my intention to eventually put you in the leg irons, because in the real world you won't be holding them in your hands. Are you going to be able to bear that?"

A challenge was all it took for Athos seemingly to shake off the last of his melancholy. Squaring his shoulders, he presented the figure of the Comte de la Fére. "Of course," he replied drily. "And I'm sure I will excel," he haughtily added, even though there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "I'm sure I won't be your problem student. Shall we return to see how far the others progressed?"

They returned to Porthos' room to find a distraught D'Artagnan chained to the leg of the bed, obviously unhappy, while an unfettered Aramis appeared to be napping on top of the straw mattress.

D'Artagnan threw a beseeching look at Porthos. "Please tell me you have the key," the frustrated man cajoled his older brother.

"He doesn't need the key, he can pick the lock," a drowsy sounding Aramis reminded him from under the brim of his hat, which was pulled over his eyes.

The Gascon tried to reach up and whack the man who was verbally irritating him, but couldn't reach him, just like the last six times Aramis had aggravated him and he had tried to smack his annoying friend. Aramis had cleverly ensured he was far enough away that the chained D'Artagnan couldn't reach him.

"You know that the definition of insanity is trying to do the same thing over and over and expecting a different result," the marksman indolently informed the fuming Gascon.

"You could help me," D'Artagnan suggested sarcastically, "instead of snoozing."

"I could, if I had the key, which I don't. Plus, I need my beauty rest. For the ladies."

D'Artagnan fidgeted and frantically poked at the lock again, but to no avail.

Porthos made a tut-tut noise, as he moved across the room towards where the boy was being held captive. "Ya need a delicate touch, pup. Easy kinda. Gentle," he instructed, as he squatted next to the squirming boy.

"Please, Porthos," D'Artagnan begged, his voice sounding panicky. "Just get me out... now."

As the boy was appearing increasingly frantic, Porthos seized the pick, twisted it in the lock, and a few seconds later the cuffs clicked open.

"Thank God!" D'Artagnan exclaimed, as he sprang to his feet and bolted out the door, forcing Athos, who had been lurking in the doorway, to step aside to avoid being trampled.

"Where's he goin' in such a hurry?" Porthos asked Aramis, who pushed up on his elbows on the bed and sanguinely grinned at his remaining brothers.

"I think the pup might have mentioned he required an urgent visit to the latrine."

"Aramis," Athos intoned with the inflection that mostly scolded, but also held a hint of amusement.

"I was teaching him a skill. We're musketeers. We can't always stop what we're doing to run to the jakes. What if we were standing guard for his majesty at an important event and the boy decided he had to pee? He'd simply have to wait. I am teaching him a valuable skill today."

"You was yanking the boy's chain," Porthos scolded, as he picked up the empty shackles and placed them on the table.

"Perhaps, but in my defense, I didn't have the key and I haven't got the hang of springing the lock," Aramis confessed, though he still seemed quite smug.

Athos' eyes flicked to the nearby chamber pot that could have been offered to the distressed lad.

"Well, yes. I suppose I could have offered him the pot," Aramis conceded. "But where is the fun in that?"

"And if he had peed on my floor you would have been cleaning it up," Porthos stated in no uncertain terms, as he moved over to the bed. Picking up the discarded locks that Aramis had set aside in favor of a nap, Porthos shoved them at marksman. "Practice," he commanded, as he sat on the bed next to him.

With a shake of his head, Athos made his way back over to the chair he had previously occupied, dropped into it, seized the abandoned pick, and started working on his own set of locked shackles.

Surreptitiously, the other two men glanced over at their brother at the table, who had focused all his concentration on the task at hand.

"Is he ok?" Aramis asked, worried about Athos' mental well-being.

Porthos gave a quick nod, as he repositioned Aramis' hand over the locking mechanism. "Yeah. Just caught him off guard with the leg irons. He'll be fine. He's Athos," Porthos answered, as if that explained everything and in a way, it did. Athos wasn't a man to let anything or anyone get the better of him except his wife, the one addiction he couldn't seem to shake.

The three men worked in concentrated silence for the next ten minutes. Just as D'Artagnan was entering the room, having finished his business, a small click sounded in the quiet space.

A grunt of satisfaction and a smug smile crept across Athos' face when the lock opened under his administrations.

"No way," the Gascon groaned, as he saw the shackles in front of his mentor fall open. "How'd you do that?"

"Perseverance," his mentor deadpanned, though the gloating little smile was still evident on his face.

"I wasn't gone that long," D'Artagnan grumbled, as he moved back over to his own set of leg irons.

"Long enough," Athos lackadaisically replied, leaning back in his chair and resting his forearms on the chair's arms in a relaxed manner.

Over the next hour, Aramis managed to open his locks twice, Athos, whenever he wanted, mostly to goad his other struggling brothers, and D'Artagnan batted zero. Aramis declared he was famished from all the intense mental activity and offered to go fetch them refreshments. Athos grunted in concurrence, but didn't offer to help. Instead he propped his feet up on the table, pulled his hat down low, and went to sleep. Even if Porthos wanted to assist in obtaining food, D'Artagnan wouldn't have let him go. The boy was determined to open the shackles he was working on and wanted his instructor nearby, in case he had a question.

Aramis left and came back a while later carrying a basket of food, which he set on the table next to Athos' scuffed boots. The Inseparables had been together long enough that Aramis knew Athos had woken up the minute the marksman had opened the door. Now he was just being insolent by leaving his feet on the table next to the food basket. Reaching over, Aramis gave the boots a good swat, knocking them off the top of the table. As he had correctly surmised, Athos had been fully awake and the swordsman raised his head and glared as his feet hit the floor.

"My mother always said it was impolite to put your feet on the table," Aramis stated breezily, as he began to unpack the hamper.

The moment the bottle of wine appeared, Athos' hand shot out, grabbed the bottle, and he used his teeth to pull out the cork. Spitting it to the side, he took a long draft from the bottle. When he lowered the container, his eyes locked on his friend. "I suppose your mother had a rule about drinking from the bottle too."

"As a matter of fact she did and about sharing too." He wiggled his fingers to indicate Athos needed to hand over the wine. Because he really did have a rather well-concealed bratty streak in his proper Comte soul, Athos took another long drink from the bottle before handing it over.

"You are incorrigible," Aramis said with a huff, as he held the bottle up to the light and observed at least of third of it had already been consumed by his friend.

Athos didn't talk much about his upbringing, which wasn't a surprise to anyone who knew the man. However, occasionally stray tidbits wandered into his conversation almost as if they slipped past his usually carefully guarded tongue.

"No, that can't be. My father assured me he had beaten it out of me," Athos tossed off the cuff, as he settled back in his chair.

Aramis, who had been unpacking the basket, gave a start. "Was your father in the habit of beating you?" he asked, with voice belaying concern.

"Of course not," Athos replied, as he reached across the table for a meat stuffed pastry and bit into it. "We had servants for that," he mumbled around a mouthful of pasty.

Aramis shot his brother a shocked look that begged for clarification, but he was met with silence from the swordsman who only gestured that Aramis should fill the wine glass he was absentmindedly clutching. At that moment, Porthos joined them and any hopes of questioning the former Comte to see if he was being facetious was lost.

''Teachin' makes me hungry," Porthos declared, as he reached for one of the still warm meat pies. It took him all of three bites to make the hand-sized, filled, pocket of dough to disappear. "What kind of meat is that?"

Athos, who was not even halfway through his pie, gave an indifferent shrug not really thinking it was advisable to put too much thought into what might be lurking between the crusts.

Aramis grinned, as he handed Porthos a second pie. "The merchant and I went with a don't ask, don't tell philosophy. But I got a great deal."

Athos blanched a little, set down his half-eaten dinner, and focused on his wine glass instead.

"Athos," Aramis jokingly scolded his friend. "I assure you they are perfectly safe."

The look he got in return said 'thank you very much but I think I will concentrate on having a liquid dinner tonight', which wasn't all that far from the norm for Athos. He ate, if it was convenient, but if it wasn't, he'd make do with a bottle of wine, or three. His brothers, however, had a differing opinion and made sure that their eldest had solid food in his diet too. In that vein, Aramis moved the wine further away from Athos and pushed a plate of bread, fruit and cheese nearer since it appeared Athos wasn't going to finish his meat pie.

"D'Artagnan. Come join us before Porthos eats your share," Aramis admonished, as the street fighter eyed the remaining pies again. "Finish his," Aramis said pointedly looking at the partially eaten object in front of Athos. "He's not going to eat it and he doesn't have any communicable disease that I am aware of."

Quirking his eye brow at the Aramis, Athos pushed his plate in front of Porthos who eagerly dove into it. "Do I get his wine in trade?" Athos asked, as he snatched his hand back from the plate and made sure he still had five fingers.

"No."

With another shrug, Athos settled back into his chair with his glass of wine and an apple, which had somehow appeared in his empty hand, courtesy of Aramis.

"D'Artagnan!" he barked causing the lad to look up from where he sat across the room still trying to pick the lock on the leg irons draped across his thighs. With accuracy that was enviable, Athos threw the apple at the pup who skillfully plucked it out of the air and bit into it before dropping his eyes to the lock again.

Athos felt the eyes of the medic of their group resting on him. "What? The pup loves apples," he said with a straight-face, as he sipped at his wine.

"Then it is a good thing I brought plenty," Aramis crowed, as he reached into the basket and pulled out five more. "Enough for D'Artagnan to have three if he so desires and that still leaves one a piece for the rest of us." Another apple found its way in front of Athos. "The vender gave me a deal if I bought a half-dozen."

"Another deal," Athos muttered, as he picked up the apple and examined the fruit as if he expected to find a worm hanging out of it. He peaked up at Aramis from under his unruly bangs and decided to nix his plan of throwing this one at the boy too. Instead, he took a bite, which made Aramis smile with contentment and focus on his own meal.

It took a number of threats and finally a direct order from Athos to get D'Artagnan to leave the lock and come eat. It was irking the Gascon he was the only one of the group that wasn't able to get the lock open at least once.

After the meal was over, Athos declared he was going to make it an early night, grabbed his hat, and left. Aramis was close on his heels, declaring he had a romantic liaison. D'Artagnan stayed to work with Porthos, but after another two hours with no success, the street fighter gently kicked him out and told him they'd try again tomorrow after the day's assignment was completed.

After the lad left, Porthos put the leg irons back into the chest all but the pair D'Artagnan had begged him to be allowed to practice on. He had made the lad a promise he wouldn't stay up all night trying to open the shackles. The gentle giant didn't have the heart to remind D'Artagnan that some people never got the knack of it.

The next morning at roll call, it seemed Porthos was the only one that got a goodnight's sleep. It only took one glance at Athos to know he had spent his evening escaping some demon at the bottom of a bottle. Porthos felt a little guilty he may have been the trigger for Athos' unrest. Aramis was also decidedly rumpled, out-of-sorts, and limping. Apparently, his romantic evening ended on a less than stellar note. As for the pup, he was totally missing and Porthos wondered if the Gascon had accidentally shackled himself to something and was waiting to be rescued.

The Captain's door on the porch opened, as a breathless D'Artagnan's slid into formation, jostling both Athos and Aramis who have the lad death glares.

"I got them open!" he excitedly hissed at Porthos. "Took me all night but I got it!"

Captain Treville's eyes brushed over his men, briefly coming to rest on the Inseparables who, except for Porthos, were looking definitely worse for wear. What were his finest and most frustrating soldiers up to now?

Like most unsanctioned activities that involved the four musketeers, things got a little out of hand with the new skill the men had learned. It soon became both a game and a challenge to shackle each other in increasing complex ways, all in the guise of practice. Before they were brought to task by Captain Treville, they had gotten rather creative.

For their first solo escape attempt, Porthos shackled each of them to the bed in their respective rooms, thinking it was a safe place. He was two thirds correct with his assumption. D'Artagnan and Aramis showed up at dinner where they had agreed to meet after they freed their legs, but Athos never appeared and by the end of dinner, his other brothers' anxiety levels were visible.

"Do you suppose he had trouble getting out? Though honestly, next to you, he is the most skilled amongst us," D'Artagnan intoned softly, so the musketeers at the nearby table couldn't hear their conversation.

Aramis gave a small snort. "More likely he got loose and decided to go drinking in some tavern without us."

Porthos, unfortunately had a third opinion, but he didn't voice it to his brothers. Athos had assured him he could handle this and gave Porthos no choice in the matter even though he remained dubious.

"I'll go check his room," the big man declared, as he rose from the table. When his friends started to join him, he gruffly stated, "Alone." When they started to object, he shook his head firmly and repeated, "Alone." Softening a bit he added, "If something is wrong, I'll seek you out."

Porthos' stomach dropped into his boots when he entered Athos' room after knocking and getting no response. He saw his brother sprawled against the wall, appearing to be unconscious and still shackled, though no longer to the bed. The rest of the room appeared as if it had been hit by a small tornado and reeked of alcohol, sweat, and fear.

He hurried over to the slumped man's side, avoiding the myriad of empty bottles littering the floor. Two shaky fingers reached out to touch Athos' neck and find the pulse point, which thankfully, was strong. Porthos sat back on his heels and let his eyes travel down the man on the floor. Blood trickled down the side of Athos' face, originating somewhere under the hair covering his forehead. His off-white shirt was shredded in places and the street fighter could see bruises already forming on the pale skin. Worse though, was the skin on each ankle under the leg irons, which was shredded and bloody.

"My God, Athos. What did you do to yourself?" he whispered in a broken voice.

He was shocked when the man he thought unconscious, answered. "It seems I had a little panic attack."

The destruction around him, which included what once used to be a bed and now was a splintered mass of woods, told of something slightly more violent than a 'little' attack.

"Please, get them off of me," he begged. "I've lost the pick. I understand now. I'm sorry."

"Sorry? What do you have to be sorry about?" Porthos guilty moaned, as he took his own pick from his boot and opened the shackles, freeing Athos' tortured ankles. "It was stupid of me to do this to you after what we went through."

The weary green eyes opened for a moment to look at him. "I thought I could handle it. Apparently...I was wrong." Closing his eyes, he took a few shallow breaths before continuing. "I became agitated, which hampered my ability. Then when I dropped the pick and it slid out of reach, I perhaps overreacted trying to free the chain from the bed so I could retrieve the pick."

With a sigh, Athos opened his eyes, glanced at the bed, and then closed them again. "I suppose I'll need a new bed."

A knock at the door interrupted the swordsman's tale and neither man was surprised to see the door open and Aramis step into the room. After glancing once around the room, he let loose with a curse, and hurried to Athos' side.

"Please tell me D'Artagnan is not coming. I'd prefer he not see me...like this."

"No. Lucky for you Treville spotted him at dinner and asked if he'd run a small errand for him. D'Artagnan could hardly refuse." Aramis eyes trailed over the room, Porthos, and lastly his battered friend. "Your secret is safe."

Giving a small nod of satisfaction, which caused him to grimace, Athos let his head sink on his chest.

"Porthos, let's get him on the..." His sentence drifted off to nothing as he looked over at what once was a bed. "Perhaps you could use the mattress to make a pallet over there." He gestured to a relatively unscathed portion of the room.

While Porthos did that, Athos picked up his tale. "Once I was free from the bed, I tried to hobble over to where the pick had fallen. However, I tripped, hit my head on the table, and somehow the pick disappeared from view. I spent some time rather frantically looking for it, my panic increasing with each passing moment. When I couldn't find the lock pick and I couldn't get out of the shackles, I decided to drink myself into calmness and wait for rescue. And here you are."

The pallet was ready and the two men gently moved their brother onto it. Then Aramis got his medical supplies and took care of Athos' wounds. When he was finished being bandaged, Athos' eyes sought out Porthos again.

"I'm sorry," he sincerely repeated.

"Why?" Porthos moaned, as he gently took his brother's hand between his own two larger ones. "I'm the one that is sorry for causing you such pain. I should have known better than to shackle your legs and leave you alone."

"You haven't been shackled, since then?" Aramis asked, sounding a bit surprised. "What about when the King threw you in prison?"

"Only my hands. Not my feet. I didn't anticipate becoming this distraught. It is unacceptable," he berated himself.

"You have a good reason," Porthos protectively replied, moving into his defender of the group role.

"As a musketeer, I have to assume at some point I may find myself shackled again. As soon as I'm," he glanced at his wrapped ankles, "better we shall try this again until I conquer this fear. But I'll need you by my side, to help."

Porthos felt tears well up in his brown eyes because the stoic Athos rarely admitted to needing help. "Of course. We'll get you through this, together, like last time, Oi?"

A ghost of a smile flickered across Athos' face before he closed his eyes and drifted off.

Porthos stayed the night watching over Athos and in the early morning, made a quick visit to Captain Treville's office to provide a half-truth as to why Athos needed a few days sick leave. The Captain knew the street fighter wasn't being totally forthright, but Porthos rarely asked for anything, so he granted the leave and allowed the half-truth to stand.

As soon as his ankles healed, Athos had Porthos shackle him, but stay by his side. With the grit and determination that made the man who he was, Athos fought down his panic and was able to overcome his fear of being shackled. Soon, he was fully participating in the lock wars with the rest of his brothers.

First, they confined their games to within the walls of the garrison, trying to find imaginative places to escape from as they branched from shackles to all sorts of locks. If a room within the musketeers' headquarters had a lock, one of the Inseparables had picked it. The trickery part became not getting caught, which was almost as an important skill as opening the lock.

Next, they branched out to the streets of Paris and beyond. One day on an idyllic ride in the woods, they chained D'Artagnan to Zad to see if he could escape. It might not have been so bad if they hadn't come under surprise attack and D'Artagnan had to fight with his feet secured around Zad's belly. Neither boy nor horse appreciated the peculiar predicament.

Eventually, rumors started floating to Rochefort's ears of peculiar behavior being exhibited by the Musketeers. His own Red Guard swore they saw the musketeers chaining each other to objects, as well as to each other. Musketeers were popping up in what appeared to have been locked spaces with rather flimsy explanations. Then there was a nasty a rumor floating about that told of a musketeer found chained to the bed in a certain Madame's house.

Finally, there was an incident Rochefort nearly witnessed for himself at the palace. The four musketeers, who were the nemesis of his life, were standing guard in the gardens, watching over their Majesties, as they played a lawn game of Quoits. Rochefort had been on the far side of the field, under a canopy in the shade, watching the King, Queen and their guests play.

He had heard an unusual sound, which caused him to look over at the four musketeers who were on the opposite side of the field and he swore there was something up with them. The youngest of the lot seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time bending over. Athos, as always, appeared one hundred percent focused on the Royal party. However, the other two buffoons were distracted by the antics of their youngest.

With an annoyed sigh at having to leave his shade, Rochefort was on his way over to discipline the errant musketeers, when the King made a ringer shot and insisted his First Minister come admire his skill. As the First Minister turned aside to accede to his King's demands, he swore he saw shackles around D'Artagnan legs. When the Gascon noticed his scrutiny, the musketeer quickly swirled his cape about his legs, effectively blocking Rochefort view. The blond started towards the musketeers again but the King's insistent braying drew him up. With a scowl at the four musketeers, he turned away and went to fawn at his Majesty's side. By the time he was finally able to stalk over to where the musketeers stood, nothing appeared amiss, and of course questioning the quartet revealed nothing and only further served to annoy Rochefort. It was then he decided to speak to Captain Treville about his men, the next time he found the man.

After that near miss at the quoits match, by mutual agreement, the Inseparables declared this skill conquered and brought the challenge to a close. But, as always, Captain Treville had the last word.

It was such a common event to have the four musketeers lined up in front of his desk Treville swore they had worn a grove in the floor. Interestingly, the order in which they lined up varied and the Captain wasn't quite sure why. Typically, people had a favorite spot or chair and tended naturally to gravitate to it. Also, rank, especially in a military organization played a part and if that were true here, he'd expect Athos always to be at the head of the line since he was the Captain's lieutenant. However, that logic didn't hold.

Treville, over the years, had developed a theory of his own, which revolved around Athos' placement in the lineup. The Captain could almost predict how conversation would go, based on where the swordsman stood. His theorem had proven rather accurate over time.

When it was the three of them, sans D'Artagnan, and they had been up to mischief, which Athos was hoping to bluff his way out of, he stood in the middle between his two brothers. There, Athos apparently felt, he had the best chance of controlling his brethren and keeping them on track with the tale he was spinning. When the Gascon joined the group, it threw a cog into the former Comte's tactics. D'Artagnan was the weakest link and no matter where Athos placed the lad in the lineup, the Gascon was the one most likely to break, despite Athos' best efforts to stifle him. However, to give the lad his due, the heart-on-his-sleeve novice musketeer was improving in the art of deception. Treville shuddered to think of the day he would draw equal with his mentor and then the Captain would have two with whom to contend.

On the other hand, when they came in to debrief a mission, Athos was always at the head of the line, accepting the role of leader with which he had been charged. If it were a more unstructured session, like when they were trying to figure out a plan, Athos would always be a bit away from the group, displaying his anti-social tendencies. Treville surmised this was done for a number of reasons. One, Athos was, by his very nature, taciturn and hovered on the outside of any social event if allowed. However, it was also a tactical maneuver allowing him to better see what was going on, by staying on the outside fringe and keeping his 'back to the wall' so to speak, decreasing the number of directions he needed to guard. It allowed him to feel safe enough, perhaps, to engage in deep thoughts.

As the four men came through his door at his request, he watched to see how they lined up. He hadn't specifically told them why he wanted to see them so they didn't know if they were going to be praised, punished, queried, or assigned a mission. They warily entered the room trying to gauge his mood and intent. The fact that they did appear a bit apprehensive, especially the boy, told Treville, unfortunately, that Rochefort's accusations were probably founded in truth and these four were behind them. He wondered if his suggestion from a few months ago was coming back to haunt him, again.

Treville was really regretting his suggestion that his men seek out new skills during their idle times. As usual, what seemed like a good idea had been taken by the four standing nonchalantly in front of him and turned into a circus. He'd bet a month's pay that Rochefort's latest observation of his men's seemingly erratic behavior would somehow trace back to Treville's not so brilliant idea.

Today's formation had them lined up in the order of D'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and finally Aramis. It left Treville wondering as it wasn't a pattern he recognized.

"How are your cooking skills progressing, Athos?" The Captain moved down the line to stand in front of his second. "Is the rabbit population safe from your administrations?" His eyes held a glint of amusement at the small twitch in his lieutenant's cheek. Surely, the man didn't think the tale of his cooking disaster hadn't reached the Captain's ears.

"It seems by a unanimous vote, I am no longer allowed to participate in anything meal related other than opening the wine or paying. I might add, though I was not afforded the opportunity to vote, I fully agree with the verdict. I seem unsuited for cooking," he deadpanned, staring straight ahead at the far wall, as if he were reporting out from a mission.

Moving in front of the next man in line, Treville eyed him up and down as if he expected to find something amiss. "And how is your swimming..." He held up his hand and self-corrected before Porthos could part his lips, "...floating progressing?"

"I still can't seem to float without a bit of...ah...assistance."

"Of a fermented nature?" the Captain suggested, though not unkindly.

Porthos gave him a dimpled grin as his answer, and then added, "But I'm confident if I fall in a river I won't drown now."

"I'm glad you were able to learn a new skill." The Captain gave a sideways glance at Athos and though he didn't say it, everyone in the room heard the unspoken thought, 'unlike some'. The corner of his senior musketeer's mouth quirked with annoyance.

He took a step backward and raked his eyes across all his musketeers, as he tried to decide which one was behind the next skill acquisition lesson, what it was, and how it related to his conversation with Rochefort. Since D'Artagnan had taught the art of cooking and Athos swimming, he narrowed his focus to Porthos and Aramis.

"The First Minister of France stopped me at the palace today," he announced, in a deceptively mild manner.

"The Cardinal has risen from the grave to return to the Palace? Such dedication in that man," Aramis quipped, earning him a quick glare from his Captain. "Oh," he said with fake contriteness, "You mean Rochefort. If you had said the First Minister of Reptiles there would have been absolutely no confusion."

Ignoring Aramis' outburst, the Captain continued. "He indicated there were rumors, once again, of odd behavior by exhibited by my musketeers."

"We are a misaligned group, it seems." The disconcerted sigh that accompanied Aramis' comment was a bit over the top and a nearly simultaneous eye roll from his brethren confirmed it.

"Rochefort indicated that my musketeers were being seen, shackled, and not within the confines of a prison where such activity is readily accepted."

Ah and there it was. The giveaway frown. Porthos. Suddenly, it all clicked Treville's mind. Given Porthos' unique upbringing, he had a pretty good idea what skill was being taught to the other three musketeers.

"Has it ever occurred to you lot that you carry things too far?" the Captain wearily queried, as he turned to walk behind his desk and sit in his chair.

Each man's answer was based on his inherent nature.

"Oi." Porthos was straight forward in his reply.

"My father always declared I was somewhat impetuous," the Gascon offered, slightly hanging his head.

Aramis, philosophically offered, "Free thinking, the ability to see beyond the artificial walls erected by a narrow-minded society, is the mark of a great man."

Athos, of course, went with a non-verbal shrug that could have meant anything.

"Porthos. If I might hazard a guess you are behind this latest skill lesson and that it is, perhaps, how to open a lock?"

The street fighter nodded his head half-proudly and half-apprehensively.

"I see," the Captain said, as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. "And how did they do?"

"Athos, surprisingly, was a natural."

Athos' lips quirked and he gave a shrug that definitely screamed 'what else would you expect'?

"Aramis, too, got the hang of it in a fairly decent amount of time."

"It is a great bedroom trick to add to my arsenal." The look the four men gave him had him adding, "Or perhaps it is best left for prisons."

"That," the Captain added, as if there was any doubt, "is exactly what I mean by going too far. And D'Artagnan?"

"Got off to a slow start, but eventually caught up."

"Gentleman," Treville declared, as he rose from his chair. "I think it is time to withdraw my idle hands proposal. It is turning out to be more... hazardous and attracting more attention than I ever imagined." His eyes drew on Athos. "The other week, when you required sick leave, was that related to this new skill?"

A touch of shame crossed Athos' face and the Captain was immediately sorry he asked, since nothing usually ruffled his second's composure. Before he could tell Athos he didn't need to answer, the man haltingly confessed.

"I didn't handle...confinement...well."

A quick glance at Porthos' and Aramis' countenance indicated that was an understatement. Interestingly, D'Artagnan seemed the least enlightened about what had occurred and Treville decided something from the three men's past, before the Gascon had arrived, was at the root of the event; something they didn't want to, or weren't ready to share with their youngest.

"However," Athos stated interrupting Treville's thought process. "I have overcome that...flaw and can now handle being...shackled...should I find myself in that unenviable position."

Captain Treville wasn't sure what the proper response to that statement was so he simply moved on. "I am officially declaring an end to this idle hands assignment. You are no longer required to make good use of your idle time. Drink, play cards, visit the ladies, duel, I don't care. It has to be less hassle than what you have put me through of late."

He was surprised to find three of his four musketeers dismayed at his proclamation.

"But I didn't get my turn!"

"Aramis gets off scot-free!" D'Artagnan protested.

"Oi. We all had to suffer teachin' each other. He should too!"

The Captain looked at Athos who was back in his non-verbal mode and answered with a shrug that basically said it was the Captain's right to decide and he would abide with the direction.

Narrowing his eyes, he shifted his gaze to rest on the marksman. "And exactly what skill do you propose to teach your brothers, Aramis?"

"Oh Captain, I simply don't want to spoil the surprise, but I guarantee that I'm well qualified to teach it and it won't cause any mishaps."

THE END

I promise Aramis' is next and then perhaps a concluding tale with Captain Treville to complete the series. I'm really having fun and I hope you are too. Each tale in the series has been hinting at a past event, especially this one. That story is half written and I think it is going to reach fifty plus chapters.