Everything, Athos thinks, is oddly peaceful. Milady sleeps beside him, for the first time in five years. He rises with the sun, and he makes himself breakfast.

Milady appears in the doorway at approximately quarter-past nine. "Morning, beautiful." The words have left his mouth before he can register what he is saying. Milady smiles. Is this what married life is like, he has to wonder. Is this what he gets to enjoy and treasure every morning, every day?

D'Artagnan smirks when Athos turns up late to the garrison, but says nothing. He has no room to talk, and he knows it.

Treville interrupts the four musketeers around dinner-time. "We've had a report of a disturbance in the city. It doesn't sound like anything major, but I'd like you to take a look nonetheless."

The four musketeers end up in a part of the city similar to the Court of Miracles. "There it is," says Porthos gruffly, pointing to the offending house. He is the first to knock. The door swings open.

A short woman with dirtied cheeks and scraggly hair stares up at him. "Is there anything I can do for you?" she asks.

Porthos is too preoccupied with the stench of the house to realise she has asked him a question; luckily his statement seems to answer it. "We've been asked to investigate."

The woman blanches. "Who sent you?"

"Forgive him," says Aramis quickly, tipping his hat towards her. "We're musketeers. Someone in the area has raised concerns over a disturbance and we've just come to investigate it."

"I see no reason to come in my house," she says sharply, but she is nervous.

"Ma'am, I am sure a good woman like you would have nothing to hide ..." Aramis frowns. Although he is sure the woman is hiding something, he cannot intrude this way.

"Mamma?" a small voice comes from inside the house.

The woman quickly shuts the door. Aramis looks from Porthos to Athos and then d'Artagnan in confusion. "There is no disturbance, simply a child."

"There are many children in Paris," says Athos. "Nobody would report a disturbance to do with a child unless it was greatly concerning—" He stops, steps between Aramis and Porthos, and turns the doorknob, just in time to hear the painful sound of flesh against flesh.

"— dare you intrude on me! Did you send for those men, you bastard? Son of a traitor! Just like your father, aren't you?"

"Unhand the boy," says Athos, and when he speaks, his voice resembles a snarl.

The woman freezes for a second, and such a second is all Athos needs to pick up the boy and rest him in his arms. He is still and frozen, not willing to relax and yet not struggling in Athos's arms.

Porthos lays a large hand on the woman's arm. "I will take her to Treville. You will deal with her son—perhaps wash him and feed him before you take him to an orphanage."

"He deserves it, the scum!" cries the woman. "The son of Rochefort! He should pay for his dirty blood!"

Porthos half-drags her from the house. Athos stares at the boy in his arms. Thin, frail and trembling, he couldn't look any less like Rochefort. "What's your name?" he asks, keeping his voice low and gentle.

"François," he whispers. Athos tries to stroke the boy's matted, dirty, blond hair, but he jerks away.

"I'm going to give him a bath and perhaps some new clothes," says Athos. "You report to Treville."

D'Artagnan nods, but Aramis furrows his brows. "I don't see why you should care," he says, eyeing the child with distrust. "There are hundreds of abused kids in Paris. Why should one more make any difference?"

"Aramis!" exclaims d'Artagnan.

Athos notices that the yelling has made François uncomfortable, and he quietly excuses himself. The walk home is unbearably quiet, and he is glad when he enters the house. He sets the child down, and Milady comes into the hallway. "I didn't expect you back so— oh!"

"This is François de Rochefort," says Athos lamely. He isn't sure how else to say it. "I need you to run a bath for him ..."

"I can do that," says Milady. She looks at the child curiously, but her gaze is gentle.

François puts a thumb into his mouth. "Don't do that," says Athos gently. "Your thumb is all dirty. How old are you?"

The boy brightens up. "Two-an'-a-hawf," he lisps. "I'm fwee on da—da Jan'werry."

"Wow," says Athos quietly. "You're a big boy, then."

He nods. Milady comes in a few minutes later to say that the bath is ready. Athos shows François the tub, and gently coaxes him in.

"Iss warm," he comments.

"It is," agrees Athos. "Lie down for me, let me wet your hair."

François whimpers. "Do you gotta?" he asks shakily.

"I can go slow," suggests Athos.

"Pwease do it fast," he mumbles. So Athos tries to make the hair-washing over as soon as possible. He has not missed the various bruises across the boy's body, and he swears to himself that his mother will pay. He cannot see Rochefort in this boy. He can only see a frightened, abused child. François has paid dearly for his father's sins, and he will be punished no longer.

Athos wraps François in a towel, and notices the clothes that Milady has left for him. Athos puts the shirt and leather pants on him, smiling when he realises he is dressed like a musketeer.

François reaches for Athos's hand and the two join Milady in the dining room. She has laid out a plate of meat and vegetables for both of them.

"Watch him, Athos," she says. "He might need some help with that beef."

"Foss," repeats François. "Dat your name?"

"Yes, it is," says Athos, laughing quietly. "And that's my wife, Milady."

"M'adee," says the little boy, grinning. He stares at the plate of food in front of him.

"Aren't you eating?" asks Athos.

"I gotta wait," he explains. "You neffa ses I could eat yet."

"Hey, in my house you don't need permission to eat," says Athos. "If the plate is in front of you then it's okay to eat the food."

"Oh," says François, and he picks up his fork, stabs a carrot, and begins to eat. By the time they are done, Athos remarks that they should take him to Treville. He picks him up for the walk there, and by the time they have reached Treville's office, François is asleep in Athos's arms.

"His mother has been arrested," says Treville, "but tell me—is it true? Is he Rochefort's son?"

"I believe so," says Athos. "And the boy was beaten as a result ..."

"Athos, I have to be frank with you," says Treville. "The people are going to judge this boy by his father. Aramis, I fear, has already done so."

Athos looks down at the sleeping boy, so peaceful and calm against his chest. "He is so young—it is a shame ..."

"Indeed. And so I must ask a favour of you. Will you care for him?"

"Sir—"

"I understand it is a great responsibility—"

"Sir—"

"I know this will be hard for you, especially considering—"

"Sir!" cries Athos. "I would be delighted, as long as my wife agrees."

Aramis does not trust this boy. His fears are irrational, he knows, but he is reminded of Rochefort every time he looks at him.

The two-year-old is currently running in circles around the garrison courtyard. "I'm a howsey, watch!" He grins and bounds up to Aramis. "Come an' pway howses, Mis."

Athos is watching them from the other side of the courtyard, so Aramis playfully grabs François by the waist and hoists him up on his shoulders. The boy squeals in delight, and Aramis tilts his body backward and forward, much to the boy's delight. "Go again! Go again!" he squeals.

D'Artagnan joins Athos in watching them. "You reckon it's going alright then?"

"They'll be best pals by the time I tell François it's time to go home," says Athos. "Look at him, he's having almost as much fun as my son is."

"That's how it should be, is it not?"