Part 4 of 4

d'Artagnan pinched the bridge of his nose for a brief moment, willing away the dull ache that had settled behind his eyes almost as soon as they'd set out that morning. It had been another of Treville's attempts to help the Inseparables regain their rhythm with one another. He suspected the only reason that all four of them had been dispatched was because the Captain was growing as weary of the discord between all of them as they were themselves. No matter Treville's intentions, d'Artagnan was certain that it had been a mistake to deploy them together, and one that he would rectify as soon as they'd returned home.

Home. The word brought d'Artagnan an immeasurable amount of sadness. At one time, he could never have dreamed of living his life anywhere else, doing anything else, but fighting, drinking and laughing alongside his friends. Athos' injury had stolen all that away from him. Worse yet, he had no other home to return to, with his farm in ruins and the last of his immediate family gone and buried next to an inn outside of Paris. The idea of starting over again bowed his shoulders, making him appear far older than his actual age.

Their journey thus far had given Athos plenty of opportunities to voice his dislike of the man who must seem like an interloper in their midst. The older man had criticized d'Artagnan's slight build, which he was certain would put his brothers-in-arms at risk; his quietness, which must mean that he either had something to hide or was merely spying on the others' conversations; and his complete lack of backbone, which had resulted in him being assigned to a mission that he clearly should have refused to go on – as if d'Artagnan's wishes had anything to do with his current circumstances. The only thing that had made the ride even moderately tolerable were Porthos' and Aramis' repeated admonishments, as they attempted to put a stop to Athos' intermittent, vile commentary.

Through all of the loudly voiced rants, sideways glances, and outright hostile glares that Athos had tossed his way, d'Artagnan had gritted his teeth and maintained both his silence and his distance. The past weeks had been incredibly challenging, and he'd eventually learned that it was best if he faded into the background; it had been a hard lesson to learn, but he would not be swayed from it now that he'd mastered it.

He released a long, slow sigh, taking care to exhale softly so that his friends would remain unaware that he was awake – again. His insomnia was an almost regular occurrence now, but he still refused to burden his friends with that knowledge, suffering in silence through night after long and lonely night. Once again, he had the middle watch, and could hardly wait until he was woken, allowing him to give up the pretense of sleep.

The low murmur of voices startled him, and he had to work hard at not letting it show in his body. Porthos was currently standing guard, but from the sound of things, he wasn't the only one awake. d'Artagnan strained to quiet his breathing further so he might catch some part of the conversation that was taking place.

"This has got to end, 'Mis." Porthos' deep baritone floated across their small camp, despite the fact that he was taking great care to keep his voice low.

"Don't you think I know that?" Aramis hissed in reply, silence falling for the span of several heartbeats before he spoke again. "Sorry, I just don't know what else to do at this point."

Porthos' tone was conciliatory when he replied. "I know that 'Mis, and what's happening isn't your fault."

d'Artagnan could almost imagine the marksman scrubbing a hand tiredly through his curls as he said, "I know." Seconds passed before the words were repeated, making the Gascon believe that Porthos had offered his friend a look of disbelief. "I do know that, Porthos. That doesn't change the fact that I second-guess myself every second of every day. What if something I did or didn't do has caused this?"

The sound of creaking leather indicated movement, and d'Artagnan envisioned Porthos moving closer to Aramis to comfort him. "You tellin' me you honestly believe there was something more you could have done that would 'ave produced a different outcome? Some mistake or something you missed that would have stopped Athos from forgettin' the past two years?" The questions were heavily edged with doubt.

"I…I don't know," Aramis eventually replied, his tone so unlike his normal cocky assurance that it made d'Artagnan's heart clench in empathy for his friend.

"Aramis," Porthos coaxed, knowing that his friend had done everything humanly possible, and that fate had taken the situation out of their hands. Unfortunately, his certainty wasn't enough – the marksman needed to arrive at the same conclusion before he'd shed the cloak of guilt he'd been wearing. "Aramis," he repeated, prodding his friend to respond.

"Head wounds are complicated," the medic began, only to be interrupted by an obviously exasperated Porthos.

"Aramis, stop that already," the large man scolded without heat. "We have no control over the past, so it doesn't help to dwell on it. Instead, we need to figure out how to make things right in the present."

The marksman snorted softly. "And yet it's the past that's causing all our current problems, isn't it?" d'Artagnan could almost hear the eye roll that accompanied Porthos' frustrated sigh. "Alright, alright, I agree – we need to put what's happened behind us and find a way forward." Aramis' voice turned wistful as he added, "A way forward that includes all four of us." Unknown to the Gascon, the comment had Porthos wearily nodding, the large man just as pained as Aramis was by their current situation.

Silence descended, and d'Artagnan could almost feel the weight of his friends' gazes on his back. He willed himself not to react, focusing on keeping his breathing steady and his limbs slack. Seconds later, Porthos broke the stillness again. "We managed to get through to him once; surely we can do it again."

'Him? Him, who?' d'Artagnan couldn't help but wonder. Surely his friends weren't suggesting that he was the problem.

"God, if it were only that simple. Time has been kind to you, my friend," Aramis stated, his tone now colored with amusement. "Have you honestly forgotten how difficult it was? That damn stubborn streak of his – keeps him alive, but makes living with him seem almost impossible."

d'Artagnan swallowed audibly, cursing silently as he prayed that the two men couldn't hear the sound. They'd always called him stubborn. Sometimes it was said in conjunction with some harebrained plan, which nearly got him killed. Other times it was with a hint of exasperated pride that he'd once more managed to deprive the Reaper of another soul. Regardless of the context, he knew one thing for certain – the trait was most often associated with him.

"That may be true, but we didn't let Athos push us away last time, any more than we'll let him do so this time. Maybe it's just a matter of being patient," Porthos allowed.

"Something which neither of us excels in, any more than our young friend over there," Aramis replied, his gaze again drifting to the slumbering Gascon.

"Look, I'm gonna go wake him," Porthos decided. "Get some rest and we'll talk more after we've both had some sleep."

d'Artagnan listened to the quiet rustling as Aramis laid down. Porthos waited for several minutes more before his light footfalls announced his presence at the Gascon's back. A hand landed lightly on his shoulder, and d'Artagnan revelled in the touch, his loneliness spiking once more as the simple act highlighted how little he'd experienced such consideration over the last few weeks.

"d'Artagnan, you awake?" the large man softly asked.

Though he hadn't slept, he also didn't want to open his eyes and once more be faced with the painful reality his life had become. Porthos' hand gently nudged his shoulder and he sighed, realizing that hiding behind closed lids wouldn't change a thing. "I'm awake."

He sensed Porthos leaning away as the touch on his shoulder disappeared, finally opening his eyes before flipping his blanket off so he could rise. He was surprised when, moments later, the large man had squatted down in front of him, hands now resting on both his upper arms. "You alright?" Porthos asked, staring intensely into the Gascon's eyes.

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan replied, his feeling of being unbalanced renewed with the question.

Porthos held his friend's gaze for several seconds, the intensity of his scrutiny beginning to unnerve d'Artagnan. Finally, the large man's inspection ended. "It'll be alright, you know. I need you to believe it'll be alright." With those words Porthos stood and walked over to his bedroll, trusting that the Gascon was aware enough to take over his duties.

d'Artagnan remained sitting for another minute as he allowed his friend's words to roll around in his head. "I need you to believe it'll be alright." Was he capable of such hope, he wondered. After all, hope required something in which to ground itself, a foundation from which it could flourish and grow. Given all that he'd lost, was there anything left for him to hold onto?

They'd just returned from delivering a missive on behalf of the King, d'Artagnan having been a last-minute addition when their assigned fourth had become ill after the morning meal. Athos had acted the way he normally did around the Gascon – that is, the way which had become the norm since losing two years of memories. The mission was mercifully short, only taking them out of Paris for a few hours, but it had been more than enough time for d'Artagnan to feel the renewed sting of Athos' disdain for him, and he was now both exhausted and relieved to be away from the older man.

"d'Artagnan," a hand clapped down on his shoulder, startling him at the unexpectedness of the touch. Vasseur's expression softened in apology as he asked, "A few of us are heading to The Boar to relax. Why don't you come along?"

The invitation was wholly unexpected and left the Gascon speechless. It wasn't that he'd never spent time in the company of others within the regiment, but it was more often by chance rather than by choice when he and his friends had ended up at the same establishment as their fellow Musketeers. In fact, d'Artagnan was hard-pressed to recall the last time he'd gone drinking with anyone but one or all of the Inseparables.

"d'Artagnan?" Vasseur was still waiting for an answer, and beyond the man's shoulder, the Gascon could see a group of men loosely gathering, clearly waiting on them. 'Could he do this?' he asked himself. The idea of leaving his drab and quiet room behind for a night held an appeal that was almost intoxicating. Losing himself in drink, while not his typical coping mechanism, would allow him to forget, if only for a night, the grief that was his stalwart companion each day and every long, sleepless night.

"d'Artagnan?" Vasseur's voice was tinged with concern as he stared at the unresponsive man in front of him. The Gascon badly wanted to reply, to accept the other man's invitation for companionship, but fear had him frozen in place. What if he went and began to forge new friendships? What guarantee did he have that he wouldn't find himself once more in a similar position to what he now faced? And what of Aramis and Porthos? What would they think of him for so swiftly having replaced them with others? Could the bonds they'd forged even be replaced?

Shaking himself from his reverie, his mind a tumultuous mix of conflicting thoughts, d'Artagnan finally replied. "Sorry, but no."

Vasseur's expression fell in sincere disappointment, prompting d'Artagnan to try and offer some type of explanation. "I appreciate the invitation – really, I do – it's just that I'm afraid I'd be rather poor company tonight."

"It's just sitting around and drinking, d'Artagnan," Vasseur countered, his eyes twinkling. "No one expects you to be a brilliant conversationalist."

The Gascon dipped his head shyly, a slight grin tugging at his lips, but his mind was made up. Lifting his gaze, he sadly shook his head. "No, really, but thank you."

The look that crossed Vasseur's face suggested that he knew exactly what he was being thanked for, and he squeezed d'Artagnan's shoulder lightly before releasing it and moving away. The Gascon watched the men head toward the garrison gates, a few lifting a hand to wave to him as they left. d'Artagnan returned the gesture, a part of his heart aching with the desire to follow, his countenance just a shade lighter than it had been minutes earlier.

In the days that had followed, Vasseur and some of the others had continued to check on him, showing up with a small treat when d'Artagnan hadn't eaten, inviting him to join them during meal times, and simply ensuring that his world didn't narrow down to only himself while his other friends were inexplicably absent. It wasn't much, but perhaps it had sustained him for a short while longer. Whether that would continue to be the case was yet to be seen.

End.

A/N: That's it for this series of tags. Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed and favorited. My gratitude to AZGirl for allowing me to piggy-back on her story and also for proofing this one. Any remaining mistakes are all mine. Till next time!