A/N: This started as a scene and turned into nine chapters of how our favorite trio became the Inseparables.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading!

Chapter 1

Athos sat at the table in the garrison courtyard, nursing a cup of very watered down wine to help take the edge off the pounding in his skull from his previous night's drinking. He would have to find a way to curtail his consumption now that he was a musketeer. Dulled senses and habitual sickness would not make him worthy of his newly bestowed commission. And while he had cared little for what remained of his wretched life these past few weeks, death was too easy an exit and he did not deserve absolution. So he would devote his life to duty and an honorable charge. Those things were, after all, the reason he'd lost everything in the first place.

Movement drew his muddled attention from his cup to the training yard where a large, burly musketeer was setting up targets. Athos grimaced preemptively; musket fire was not going to help his headache.

The other musketeer picked up a musket and started priming it. Athos was considering relocating when he spotted Captain Treville coming out of one of the barracks' rooms on the ground level, which seemed strange, since the captain's office and quarters were on the second floor.

The captain walked over to the musketeer with the musket. "Not today, Porthos."

The musketeer stalled in his priming of the weapon, brow furrowing in confusion. His gaze shifted over the captain's shoulder to the room he'd just come out of, which was dark. His mouth turned down further. "But he was gettin' better."

Treville's expression was oddly sympathetic yet grim. "Not today," he repeated.

The captain turned his head, eye catching Athos's. "You can practice your sword fighting instead. Athos is a skilled swordsman."

Porthos looked his way, lips thinning.

Athos rose from the table at the implied order and walked over, mustering what composure he had to remain steady.

"I don't believe you've been formally introduced yet," Treville said. "Athos, this is Porthos. He's been with the regiment for a few months. Porthos, this is Athos, our newest member."

The two men exchanged cordial nods.

"I'll leave you to it," Treville said and made his way upstairs to his office.

Athos undid his weapons belt so he could doff his coat, walking back to place them both on the table. He then unsheathed his sword from its scabbard. Porthos was already just wearing a shirt and vest for comfortable sparring attire. The man looked reluctant, though, as he traded his musket for a blade.

Athos walked into the center of the yard and took a moment to find his center of balance. Even inebriated, he could wield a sword well enough. He saluted Porthos with his rapier before shifting into a ready stance. The other man attempted to mirror his form, but it was clear from his posture that he lacked formal training.

Athos attacked first. Porthos's parry was immediate and forceful, too much so; while his arm was completing the momentum of his swing, he left his side exposed. Athos took a swipe at it, careful to lightly thwack his vest rather than slice through it. Porthos lurched away, brows knitting together. Athos let him make the aggressive move next.

The force of his swing sent vibrations down Athos's arm when he blocked it, but again he lacked poise and Athos was able to twist around behind him and press the tip of his blade into the man's exposed back.

Porthos hopped away, expression tightening further. But instead of renewing his fervor, he attacked with clumsy attention, his gaze almost as shifty as his aim. The strident clang of steel rang out in several staccato peals that rattled Athos's head before he swiftly disarmed the man.

"You are distracted," he commented blandly.

Porthos shrugged away.

"Distraction during training will translate to distraction during a real battle," Athos pointed out, echoes from his own tutelage coming forth.

Porthos shot him a miffed glare. "Can't imagine the sound of sword fightin' is any better than musket fire," he grumbled.

Athos lowered his blade. "You believe Treville's instruction to forego target practice was in deference to the noise?"

The larger man's gaze flicked to the dark room before he turned back around. "Let's jus' go again," he huffed.

Athos obliged, but once more he was able to quickly beat Porthos three times in a row. The disparity in their skill level was something to take into account, but it was also clear that the other man's heart simply was not in it.

"Perhaps you were hoping for another sparring partner this morning," Athos commented, his own gaze now drawn to the dark room that kept distracting Porthos. "Your friend is ill?" he hazarded based on what he'd overheard from the captain.

Porthos's irritated expression quickly morphed into one of sadness. "Aramis. He was wounded at Savoy and sometimes his head pains 'im badly." His tone dropped to a low murmur laced with disappointment. "But he was gettin' better."

Savoy. Athos had heard of what happened there. It was impossible not to; everyone in the garrison whispered about it, the horror of the slaughter, the tragic loss of twenty soldiers. The massacre of Savoy was the reason a drunk like him had been granted a commission: the ranks were too thin and Captain Treville was in desperate need to rebuild them.

The murmurs also spoke of the sole survivor. Well, technically there were two who had not perished, but one was a deserter who was only spoken of in whispered contempt. The other was one whose name ghosted the garrison frequently. Aramis.

Athos did not yet have a face to go with the name. The man was not on the duty roster and Athos never lingered in the garrison after his duties were over, electing to find a dark corner in the nearest tavern instead.

"How are his skills with a blade?" Athos asked.

Porthos blinked in confusion. "He's pretty good. Bet he could keep up wit' you once he's feelin' better."

"I look forward to testing that," Athos replied. "Perhaps in the meantime we can work on your sword skills so you can keep up with him. Once he's feeling better."

Porthos eyed him warily, not quite sizing him up but perhaps uncertain of Athos's intentions?

Athos merely waited until Porthos finally gave a slow nod and resumed a sparring stance. This time his focus was better, and Athos called out instructions on his form and execution as they went at each other. The man graciously took the corrections and appeared to be seriously trying to incorporate them. He may have been unrefined but he clearly wanted to learn and displayed an aptitude for it.

Athos found himself struggling with his own wine-addled shortcomings in order to keep up with his stamina.

o.0.o

Over the next two days, Porthos joined Athos at the table in the morning before muster. His friend Aramis had yet to emerge, so Athos figured the man was looking for other company. But Porthos didn't bother Athos with overtures of friendship, which was just as well, especially since mornings weren't good for Athos to begin with. More than that though, he was not interested in befriending anyone.

When he'd first joined the regiment, some of the other men had made attempts to strike up casual conversation, but he'd silently rebuffed their efforts until they gave up trying to engage him in anything that didn't have to do with Musketeer business.

But seeing as how Porthos kept his own silence, Athos tolerated him.

Then, on the third morning, Athos arrived late, having had a particularly hard time getting out of bed after he'd spent several minutes retching into his water pitcher. When he walked into the garrison courtyard, Porthos was already seated at the table at the base of the stairs having breakfast. A group of musketeers came out of the kitchen with their own bowls of porridge, but instead of taking the vacant seats, they all moved to congregate on the opposite end of the courtyard, choosing rather to sit on crates and hay barrels instead of at the table. The behavior seemed casual, natural, yet there was almost a pointedness to the way that no one's gazes even remotely drifted Porthos's direction.

Athos had assumed this whole time that Porthos was of a similar disposition as him, choosing solitude out of personal preference. It seemed he was incorrect. Only a blind man wouldn't notice Porthos's darker complexion and slightly brutish manner. But while Athos didn't care for friendship, neither did he care for discrimination.

He walked across the yard and took a seat at the end of the table. "Morning."

Porthos looked up in surprise, confirming Athos's suspicions. After a moment, he nodded in return. "Mornin'."

They sat in silence after that until it was time for muster. Treville announced who was to report to the palace for guard duty, which included Athos and Porthos. A total of four were sent to the palace grounds to stand watch while the King entertained himself with some fencing practice.

The assignment was dull and standing in the sun did not help Athos's headache and queasiness. He didn't even bother taking note of the King's form or his tutor's expertise. Nor was he really paying attention to their surroundings. He was relieved when the King finally ended his activities and retired inside, thus relieving the musketeers of their posts.

The four returned to the garrison, silent the entire way, and the other two quickly broke away from Athos and Porthos once they reached the yard as though eager to escape undesirable company. Athos didn't care for himself, but he thought their behavior toward Porthos unbecoming of a musketeer.

There was a man sitting at their usual table and Porthos immediately brightened upon seeing him.

"Aramis."

The man gave a wan smile in return, and Athos couldn't help but notice how frail he looked: thin and waxen and leaning more than half his weight against the edge of the table in order to sit up. There was a furrow along the side of his head where the skin was puckered pink, his short, unruly curls having yet to grow over the scar.

"Good to see you up an' about," Porthos said with a beaming smile.

"Good to be up and about," the man replied.

"This is Athos." Porthos gestured to him. "Athos, this is Aramis."

Athos nodded politely. He was considering where else he might find shade and quiet to retreat to, but Porthos went on, saying,

"Athos has been helpin' me train with a sword. He's pretty good."

"It was just once," Athos corrected.

Porthos looked chastised and quickly gave a stiff nod. "Of course." He turned back to Aramis. "The captain ordered him to when you weren't able to coach me on shootin'."

Aramis's expression fell at that. "I'm sorry."

"Nothin' to worry about," Porthos assured him. "We can always try later."

"We also haven't had an opportunity to practice again," Athos interjected, disliking the assumption it seemed Porthos had made in regards to his earlier statement. "Your form needs work but you have power. With some refinement, you'll make an excellent swordsman."

Porthos looked utterly astounded by the remark. Athos, too, was slightly taken aback by it, as he wasn't usually free with compliments. Although it wasn't like he had spoken an untruth.

Aramis smiled. "That's good. I'm glad Porthos has found someone to work with."

Athos again wondered how much the large man was shunned in the regiment, if his only friend was an invalid who looked like a soft breeze could knock him over.

Porthos cleared his throat and turned back to Aramis. "Have you eaten?"

The man paled further at the question, which Athos hadn't thought possible.

"No…" he murmured.

"I'll get us all some food," Porthos immediately volunteered, flashing a grin between both Aramis and Athos before heading for the kitchen.

This would be the point in which Athos would take his leave, but he hesitated at the rejection Porthos would perceive by doing so. Thus, he reluctantly sat on the bench and reached for the pitcher of water that was on the table. He poured himself a cup, then did the same for Aramis, who blinked at him in surprise. It seemed Athos was knocking everyone off balance today.

Aramis nodded his thanks and sipped slowly at the water.

Neither of them spoke, and the silence was only broken with Porthos's return. The man had two plates balanced in one large hand and a third in the other. He set them on the table and pushed two toward Aramis and Athos. There was some roasted chicken and bread rolls, along with a single slice of cheese each.

Athos hadn't eaten yet that day, what with his stomach rebelling so forcefully that morning. It still warbled in displeasure as he took a bite of chicken, but the bread settled more easily.

Porthos heartily pushed whole forkfuls into his mouth, while Aramis picked sparingly at his portion.

"Mmm," Porthos mumbled. "Serge's cookin' tastes real good today. Some of his best."

Athos thought the food tasted the same as it did every day, but a look at Porthos's eager face encouraging Aramis to eat more showed what the larger musketeer was trying to do.

Aramis's mouth tugged upward in a feeble smile and he took another bite. It looked to be a struggle though, despite Porthos's repeated praises of the cook's skill. It was too bad Serge wasn't out here to hear them.

Aramis managed to eat a quarter of his plate before he lifted his head with a smile and asked, "Do you two have time to spar? I'd like to watch."

Porthos straightened and raised his brows in question at Athos. He looked so enthusiastic about it that Athos shrugged his acquiescence and stood to remove his coat. He noticed Aramis surreptitiously use the change of subject to cease eating his lunch. Porthos seemed oblivious, walking out to the middle of the yard and bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation.

It was just a little sparring for training purposes, Athos resolved, nothing more. Helping someone improve their skill was not the same as friendship.