Musketeers fic: Affinityverse

[rainjoyswriting]

Proximity to Crows, Musketeers fic, affinityverse (best catalogued in my memories) <3

Disclaimer: The price of butter has risen by a quarter since January. The fact that I'm painfully fucking aware of this suggests that my budget is rather smaller than that of the person who could claim ownership of these characters.

Rating: Eesh, call it R for old times' sake.

Warnings and spoilers: The main list's on part one, read sensibly.

Summary: How to win friends and not detonate people.


Note: This will be a theme: I'm sorry.








Athos has no rift-enhanced intuitive ability, but parking at the villa, removing their bags from the boot to go back to their rooms, he still knows low in his guts that this is a bad idea.

For Aramis, who has the drawn look of illness on his face, this may be seen as something like lancing a boil; he believes that Richelieu is still here, and if he's to face him sooner or later, he's determined himself to do it sooner. But he's breathing in an oddly purposeful way, as if reminding himself of how to breathe, as if he feels queasy, and Athos thinks - they don't know that they can persuade d'Artagnan in time -

He just doesn't want Aramis' little time left to be as keenly full of suffering as proximity to Richelieu will certainly make it. And judging by the low mutter of thunder at the horizon, the heavy close feel of the sky, Porthos is thinking much the same thing. D'Artagnan, less used to sustained proximity to Porthos and what that means, keeps giving wary glances to the sky and then back to Porthos. He'll learn, Athos thinks. If they all live long enough for it, he'll learn to read Porthos' moods by the feel of the air, and never have to draw attention to a situation Porthos is already sensitive enough about, his feelings covering the whole sky.

Aramis gives no indication of noticing the sticky July storm that feels like it's rolling in. After hugging the captain hello he just hunches there in Athos' winter coat, nose buried in his scarf, trying to be patient about fleeing indoors to find some elusive, mythical warmth for his bones. Athos tries to remember the last time Aramis seemed warm, not merely willing to bear the temperature for a little while but actually warm, and finds that he can't. He has memories of him in t-shirt sleeves but when was that, how long ago was that? It's like his blood's gone to mercury inside him, and no warmth in the world can penetrate to it.

In their bedroom in the house by the sea - they'd told d'Artagnan to pack and he'd shrugged, said he hadn't unpacked anyway, but left them to throw some things into bags themselves - Athos looked at Aramis rolling sweatshirts up small to fit them into an overstuffed bag, the way his eyes remained on what he was doing. And Athos walked over, and put a hand on the back of his neck, gentle, and said, "We don't have to. We're not actually ruled by which side a piece of metal happened to fall on."

"No," Aramis said. "It's got to be done. I don't like not knowing what - whatever's happening in my head, I never understand it but this I really don't understand. So if I can know just what this intuition means, it's something, for me."

He's been calmer, the last few days; ever since the priest visited, and Athos eyed him warily at that thought, because he resents darkly the thought that Aramis feels obliged to be miserable until a priest can tell him not to, and yet there's nothing that can be done about it, because at least a priest can make him seem so settled. He just slid his fingers up into his hair and held his head for a moment, Aramis watching him with his perfectly trusting patience, faintly amused, until Athos let him go.

Now in the villa they unpack what they threw into bags this morning, and it's already late but Athos knows Treville hasn't gone to bed and would like a moment with him, as soon as possible. "I'll go report to the captain," he says, and Aramis looks at him and smiles, and folds his arms closely around himself, says, "Maybe I'll get a shower."

"I'll get in with you," Porthos says, dropping his bag on the bed. They've learned by now that it's the easiest way to monitor the temperature Aramis is setting the water to, he'd cook the skin clean off himself to try to feel warm, and sharing a shower always does make him smile.

Outside their room Athos glances at the door he knows d'Artagnan - 'Charles', he already knows, never will stick - is behind, then follows the old known corridors downstairs, into a different wing . . .

There's light showing underneath Treville's office door, as if he knew to expect him. Athos knocks, enters, and Treville looks at him in fairly peaceable silence. His computer's on but his posture suggests that he hasn't been looking at it, just staring over the desk, thinking.

He jerks his head a nod for Athos to sit, and opens the bottom drawer of his desk. "It's too late for coffee," he says, bringing out two glasses, and a bottle of brandy.

For a time they sit in silence, and Athos appreciates it a great deal, slowly sipping brandy to appease the rusted grinding of his bones and putting his thoughts in order. Treville is not of their circle but he's a very big part of their lives, and Athos likes to get to spend some time with another adult (it's not so much that he finds Aramis and Porthos immature, as such, though he often does; it's that he thinks of them as young, vulnerable, and appreciates knowing that some other grown up also wants the two of them taken care of). Like Aramis and Porthos, Athos can be silent with Treville and be understood. And, like Aramis and Porthos, if he wants more than his general contentment in silence to be understood, he needs to articulate his thoughts, which is what he's working on now.

"Aramis felt a pull," he says.

Treville raises his glass calmly. "You said on the phone."

"He said specifically that it wasn't like his ordinary intuitions." Athos holds his brandy, works his jaw and then stops himself; it hurts. It's even got into the fine bones of his fingers now, it only ever used to be his larger, heavier joints. He hasn't mentioned it to his circle. God knows they're already dealing with enough, and in theory, one way or another, it will soon be over, and they'll never need to know. "His rift lies to him."

Treville says, slowly, "The boy . . ."

Athos sighs, heavily, and knocks back some brandy, and swallows the slick burn of it down. "Resents me. Doesn't trust Porthos. Is frightened of Aramis." He holds a hand out a shrug, how can they blame him in this? The two of them might be long used to Aramis but no-one else could be, not the way he is now. "He thinks he's mad."

"So your circle is as yet unsealed."

"We can talk to him and talk to him but his father's just been killed in front of him and we are not the most reassuring figures right now. He looks at Aramis . . . I am trying not to blame him." His jaw hurts worse, and it's his fault for clenching it. "He doesn't know him. He hasn't had years of his relative sanity to appreciate, he has no idea who Aramis as a person is. He knows more of the forgetfulness and confusion and nonsense Aramis comes out with than what little fragments of his own mind his rift has left him after all these years. There's the fact that he keeps talking to him in a bizarre archaic accent and Aramis - Aramis thinks he already knows him. He wants to act like they're already friends, he keeps trying to put his arm around him. The boy -"

He's trying not to blame him, but Athos' circle teeters on a chasm's brink and that boy could save them, if only . . .

"It's intimidating," Treville says, quietly. "He thinks that accepting himself as one of you means he takes on the burden of what the three of you are, including Aramis at his worst. You know that Aramis can get better. He doesn't know what Aramis healthy actually looks like."

Athos knew he wanted to talk to Treville. "Yes," he says, and disguises his relief with another sip of brandy. "I remember it from when I joined them. Then I was wary of his episodes, until I . . . I have never 'got used' to them, but I know how to help him in them now, and at least I know how not to hurt him worse in them, which was the main fear. It's not the physical side of it that distresses the boy, he's only awkward of making things worse in the episodes because he doesn't understand them, he doesn't fear them. But as far as he knows, Aramis is mad, and he has no idea what being truly close to him would entail. Which makes Porthos dislike him in turn - he's seen the way he looks at Aramis, and he's holding himself back, they're both distrustful of each other."

Over the lip of his glass before a drink, "And you?"

Athos stares at him, then draws a breath in, and all his ribs creak the ancient pain of letting it out again.

He says, "Another damn teenager." and Treville gives a soft amused grunt.

It's not what he really means, and Treville knows that too. Another damn teenager, yes, when Athos has done his time, he put up with Aramis and Porthos as over-exuberant teenagers for two years, and he really shouldn't be subjected to that again. But someone else to get used to, someone else to let in, to trust, to be close to; it's not easy for him. There are ways in which he feels free of Anne's influence - her name no longer hurts him, once it was like twisting the iron spear through his chest and he thought he'd never, never feel anything less. Now all he feels is an odd, open sort of yearning to put it all right, to have her brought to justice, to offer her justice for his own wrongdoing. But there are ways Anne's influence will linger for longer, maybe for ever, and if he had a closed circle it would be fine to be wary of outsiders because he'd simply never need another new person again. But he doesn't have a sealed circle, and here is an outsider he has to trust or they never will seal themselves, and the last dregs of Aramis' mind will drip out through their desperate fingers, and Porthos will break the sky clean open, and Athos' screaming bones will split the earth . . .

There is a great deal he would like to say, and can't. Treville would be the only option for it now. Athos can't give Porthos more to deal with than he already has to - the last eight years of his life have been spent trying to protect Aramis from his rift, and now he's watching his own failure in front of his eyes, and Athos knows what it costs him. Aramis is so confused that he may be quite a safe confessor, as he's liable to simply forget whatever Athos tells him a few moments later, but it hardly feels fair to use him for sympathy like that - undoubtedly he would offer sympathy - and it would be too complicated, too painful to say while looking into Aramis' eyes, when so much of what Athos is struggling with concerns Aramis so very intensely.

It occurs to him that he doesn't even think about talking to the boy. Of course he doesn't, he's new, he's not one of them, there are very few people Athos offers confidence to and some new teenager just strolled up . . .

Perhaps there is more than just d'Artagnan's reticence that is holding this circle apart.

But he could tell Treville, who stands at one step back from their intense little circle, and that might help, though even in thinking of it Athos knows that he won't. He knows what Treville would say, if Athos told him, as bravely as he could, that he feels that he's failing them, he's failed them, that somehow this should be something he can control, something he can fix for them, and he can't. And it's in him like a fisherman's hook, bit under the flesh so hungry to hold in, this is how he has defined himself for years: What is the point of him if he's not helping them?

Fucking hell. There may be many reasons why this circle hasn't sealed.

He drinks his brandy and knows exactly what Treville would say, which is that d'Artagnan's behaviour is not theirs to control, Athos is responsible for less than he attempts to be responsible for, and his life has meaning and reason beyond merely minding the two of them, in theory. Athos is aware of all of these things. But knowledge is very different to belief. Years of watching Aramis go through his motions while you thought yourself so above superstition, he thinks, too tired to be amused. And here you pretend to be rational and show no damn evidence of it at all.

There's no point saying it. It wouldn't change anything.

Treville tops up Athos' glass, and pours a very little more into his own. "Richelieu is still in the villa," he says. "In one of the guest rooms. He was displeased to find that when he came to interview Charles he was no longer here, and stated his intention to remain until you brought him back." Treville rubs his closed eyes hard. "Actually he demanded that I order you to bring him back, but that's not under his jurisdiction."

"We guessed as much." Athos says. "Aramis was determined to return anyway. But we can't - I don't want the two of them to cross paths. Aramis and Richelieu." He looks very carefully at his glass, not at Treville, at his glass. "Aramis hasn't the strength for the kinds of episodes he gives him right now. He's barely surviving as it is."

It's hard for Porthos to watch Aramis fail and be unable to do anything about it. It's hard for Athos, very hard, to face his own helplessness in the face of it. The captain . . .

Treville puts his glass down, and clears his throat, not entirely naturally. "It was Richelieu who first found him." he says. "Aramis' rift opened with such a roar, I wouldn't be surprised if every water affinity on the planet heard him. I . . . I don't know why the two of them took against each other so immediately. Their personalities are not compatible -" Athos tilts his glass a polite sort of indication of do state something more obvious if you believe that it is possible, captain - "but they didn't even exchange words before they hated each other. But if it wasn't for Richelieu he would never have been found. He'd have been left in that orphanage attic for God knows how long. He would have died there. Fourteen years old and he would have died like that. But Richelieu heard him, and I just can't believe that . . . he's an extremely pragmatic man. Richelieu."

"I didn't think you meant Aramis."

"No. But Richelieu is probably the most sinisterly practical man the world has ever seen, and I can't imagine him doing anything out of mere vendetta. Everything has its proper reason, to him. Another sealed circle would be beneficial to our institution. I can't believe Richelieu would mean Aramis real harm for that reason alone."

Athos mulls on it. Everything Treville has said makes absolute sense; but, the voice inside says. Aramis' intuitions are a permanent but. And yes, Aramis' rift lies to him and fucks with him and goes out of its way to hurt him, but could it really have deceived him for ten years as to the intentions of that man? Aramis knows not to trust Richelieu on a level Athos trusts, the certainty is like his control of water, as easy as a blink to him. Aramis' intuitions are the parts of his powers he actually has some control over, they're actually on his side, and they know that Richelieu is a snake.

But he felt a pull, as well. What the hell could have pulled them back here?

He sighs, and drains his glass. "I should get back to them," he says. He's already been away too long, five minutes is too long, they never know when the next episode will be, when Aramis will again become upset and trust in nothing but the presence of the two of them.

Treville says, "Get some rest. There's enough to deal with in the morning, don't try to handle it at night as well."

Athos says only, "Goodnight, captain," and neither of them say that Aramis' episodes, his confusion, his moments of panic, don't keep themselves for the morning. But Athos understands the sentiment; when hell keeps breaking out all around you, sleep in the moments you get.

He makes his way back through the evening villa, quiet and open and feeling much larger with many fewer staff in it. He's thinking, very hard - the boy, and his circle, and Richelieu, and the thought of Aramis makes him think of how Aramis would respond to his current scowling stream of thought, ever-amused at Athos' capacity to brood, and his heart bangs on its bruise because Aramis is now too little aware of what's happening to make a joke about it . . .

Hand lifting for Aramis' bedroom door handle, he hears the sounds behind it, the tinny explosions of some idiot film they must be watching. He only sighs, and lets himself in.

D'Artagnan is there. He's sitting on the bed with them, all three aimed at the laptop towards the foot of the bed, only d'Artagnan giving Athos a slightly embarrassed look as if he shouldn't be there. But Aramis is hunched up next to him wrapped in the duvet with his cheek pillowed to the great heft of it over his shoulder, looking mostly sleepy, and Porthos is beside him, legs stretched out and hands folded on his stomach, giving Athos a well? eyebrow-raise. And all Athos can think in that breath-held second is -

Together, they look so right. Of course d'Artagnan is meant to be here. He's their circle.

Still, four on the bed is a push and he sincerely hopes the boy doesn't mean to sleep here, even if Aramis does like company. Porthos says, "How was the captain?" and Aramis' eyes blink, take on some interest in the situation - he recognises the captain, even if he's clearly not entirely present right now and not following much else. Athos just says, "Fine," and goes to his bag dumped by the wall, to fish out a good bottle of whisky. He hesitates, doesn't know how Aramis will react, and says without inflection, "He says Richelieu is still in the building."

"We know." Porthos says. "Aramis knew, anyway."

Aramis huddles the duvet closer - he's got it flopped over his head like a cloak - and mutters as if to himself, "All I dream about anymore is scorpions." Porthos puts a hand on his head, through the duvet, and doesn't look at him.

"Aramis got antsy about d'Artagnan bein' on his own if Richelieu's out there." He looks embarrassed, now. "He doesn't want him sleepin' alone."

Athos stands there, whisky in hand, silent for one second. Then he walks closer, leans to squint into Aramis' face, half-hidden by the duvet, and says, "Not again."

Aramis tucks his chin low so his eyes are hidden, says muffled into the duvet, "My intentions towards the boy are as chaste as a nun's, I promise you, Athos. We can make him a bed on the floor."

"I have told him I'm not scared of sleeping on my own," d'Artagnan says, eyes still on the film though Athos supposes it inane enough to not require that much attention. "I don't need babysitting and I'm not sleeping on the floor when there's a damn bed in the next room."

Athos leans further to look at Aramis for some time - huddled into his duvet-cave his expression is that of trying very hard not to look as upset as he really is, emotion is as obvious on Aramis' face as a stone dropped into still water, his eyes just move. Athos tries to see this situation as Aramis must right now, tries to think - he may not know where he is, he clearly doesn't understand the laptop at the foot of the bed and all the impossible scenes it shows, he knows Richelieu is here and knows Richelieu intends his circle harm, he doesn't understand that they seem calm with the alarming situation they're in and they're clearly not taking him seriously enough. God, to be trapped like that, the only one with a great deal of psychic information no-one else has access to and no access to a great deal of the everyday information that makes the world make sense . . .

D'Artagnan says, "You're blocking the screen."

Athos stands upright again, and pops the cork from the bottle to pour some into the glass on the bedside table. "Move over or let me get between you. Does anyone else want any? And yes, we all know that you're not afraid to sleep alone, but Aramis is afraid for you sleeping alone, and you would be doing him a kindness."

"By sleeping on the floor."

"We've slept worse an' weirder," Porthos says, and his hand cups the back of Aramis' head through the duvet. "Found you in the bath that time, slept in a hundred fuckin' airports . . ."

D'Artagnan chooses to stand and let Athos climb on the bed, so the three of them can cram themselves as tight as they know they can to allow him to sit on the edge of the bed, a little wary of the three of them and the ways they quickly, easily tessellate themselves. Such easy intimacies, Athos thinks. Some small moments make him understand what he really has with the two of them so immediately it's like a camera flashes right in his eyes, he's dazzled with it.

D'Artagnan says, "I really don't think -"

"It's just for tonight." Porthos says. "Shit, you'd be doin' us all a favour, you think we wanna listen to him fussin' about you all night?"

"He can have the duvet from your room to lay on," Athos murmurs. "Have you ever actually slept under that?"

"Few times," Porthos says, and scratches his throat thoughtfully. "Eight years ago."

"Practically untouched." Athos says, and cuts d'Artagnan a wry glance. "So you can't catch anything from us, if that's what you're worried about."

D'Artagnan glares back, then folds his arms and looks at the screen again, where something blows up. Athos decides it not worth his while to find out what or why.

He knows that's the boy's reticence, really. While it is a strange request that he not sleep alone, the stranger request is that he sleeps with them, and Athos does understand that it's innocent - Aramis has never, Athos realises with surprise, actually flirted with the boy, has told the two of them repeatedly that they're not destined for any romantic relationship with him, and seems to view him as either a little brother or as a child, to be minded and loved, something Aramis is very good at, at his best. But still the boy is uneasy of the relationship they have, and it's made everything more difficult. They understand that the circle is separate to their bedsharing, but for d'Artagnan it's hard to understand the two things separately, given that he doesn't yet truly understand either part of the equation in itself. Neither did Athos, until he found himself within both situations.

How many days has it been since his father died in front of him? Athos keeps himself relaxed, holding Aramis close to his side so Porthos can fit on the bed, also holding Aramis to his side for balance. He needs his time, it's fine to give him a little time. He'll come around. He must.

Aramis nuzzles to get comfortable, duvet pillowing his cheek to Athos' shoulder. Athos takes a sip of whisky. Porthos murmurs, "He's not allowed t'talk. He spoils films."

"Not my fault." Aramis says quietly, and yawns. "Can't keep them in the right order."

He'll be asleep soon anyway. Athos turns his cheek slightly to press the top of Aramis' head, and indulges himself in closing his eyes and enjoying it, just drifting there on a bed with his circle, content. Yes, he grudgingly allows, it's better that d'Artagnan sleep in here tonight. Not because any of them particularly want him to - Athos is private, Porthos more possessive than he thinks of himself, Aramis - well, Aramis is probably open to it, but that's not why he wants it. Even if d'Artagnan really doesn't want to sleep in here, Aramis is terrified of him not being with them while Richelieu is around, and the only way to settle his mind is if d'Artagnan just stays with them tonight. You make sacrifices when you care about people, particularly people as vulnerable as Aramis is right now.

But Aramis doesn't mean very much to d'Artagnan - a madman he's known for a matter of days, days in which d'Artagnan has been over-involved in his own troubles. He's doing that thing with his hands again, stretching them open and squeezing them closed, as if his palms are bothering him. Athos lifts his glass, says, "Would it help to run them under water?"

D'Artagnan says nothing for a moment - Athos doesn't look at him, though they're crammed tight enough that he can feel the tension in his muscles - then says, "The only way it would help is that I can't set water on fire by touching it."

"What a pity there isn't a water affinity around who could make it so you permanently never again set fire to anything you didn't intend to," Athos says, and takes another drink.

D'Artagnan says, "Will he tell me where the woman who killed my father is if I do form a circle with him?"

Aramis mumbles, head not raising, "The woman . . ."

"Go to sleep," Athos says, and feels Porthos' arm pressing comforting at Aramis from behind. "And he's going to tell all of us where she is, when we do have a sealed circle, so we can bring her in to face justice and be kept somewhere safe, where she can't hurt anyone else." He looks at d'Artagnan, who's looked away from the film, is glaring mutely at him. "When that is enough for you, then this circle might actually seal."

D'Artagnan glares back in the direction of the film and folds his arm, clearly looking through the screen rather than at it. "You wouldn't understand," he seethes out through his teeth.

Athos thinks about that, in silence, then takes another sip of whisky. "She killed my brother," he says. "And with as little distance from it as you currently have, I felt more or less exactly as you do now. All I can hope is that you turn out to be a better man than me, and start believing in true justice a lot sooner than I did."

"So, you're entitled to judge me because -"

"I'm not judging," Athos says, and Aramis is breathing soft on his shoulder, and is almost as cold through the duvet as something already dead. It's not his feelings towards Anne he's really judging d'Artagnan for. It's the fact that before that boy makes up his damn mind Aramis could die, and there will never be a circle then, the two of them remaining could never forgive it to move past it. He doesn't say that out loud. He doesn't want to precipitate more of an argument, not while Aramis is sleeping against him, as psychic as he is any upset around him tends to work into him by osmosis and wake him fretful and nervous.

They do make a bed on the floor, and Athos expresses his gratitude for d'Artagnan's slightly sullen graciousness in the matter in silence, because if he's to be their circle the boy really needs to get used to Athos expressing most things in silence. Aramis wakes during that, enough to drowsily direct from the bed, and they take their turns using the bathroom. Then there's two hours of undisturbed sleep before an episode - there was always going to be one, Aramis as aware of his proximity to Richelieu as this - and then another three hours after that. There's one more before they give up on sleeping, seven in the morning and Aramis really taking his time with his blinking, like there's something wrong with his eyes, like whatever he's seeing needs dislodging the only way he can.

They take their turns with the bathroom, d'Artagnan leaves them for long enough for them all to dress, and waits outside while they work out how many layers they need to get Aramis buried in today.

Allowed back into the room d'Artagnan looks at Porthos closing the laptop where he'd been checking the weather report to try to keep his anxious rain restricted to what should be happening outside, Aramis is sitting dopily on the bed and Athos stands by him, one hand gentle on his head. D'Artagnan shifts his feet, shrugs, says, "What now?"

Athos thinks about it. "Breakfast," he says. "Then perhaps Aramis will feel well enough to teach you how to shoot."

"Shoot?"

"You're gonna need it," Porthos says, standing up, stretching.

D'Artagnan looks at Aramis, blinking with half-focused eyes back. "He's going to teach me. To shoot."

"Best shot in France," Porthos says. "Hell, Europe. Never seen 'im miss."

"I suppose we should find it more disturbing," Athos says, "that he's never more himself than when he has a gun in his hands. But it's just so him." He runs his thumb back through Aramis' hair. "Do you think you'll feel well enough?"

Aramis blinks that slow, squeezing way. "Well enough?"

"To teach d'Artagnan to shoot."

"That's not my name."

Aramis shakes his head, and sighs, but he's smiling, suddenly. "It's not the shooting so much with that one. Reloading, that's what we need to work on, it's not something you can take your casual time about when someone who wants you violently dead is getting closer every second, you're not shooting at rabbits on your farm anymore."

D'Artagnan gives Aramis a long, uneasy look, then says, "That's almost the longest technically coherent thing he's ever said to me and I still don't understand it."

"Talk to him," Porthos says, a little dangerously. "He's right there."

Aramis says, "None of you are dressed for the weather. It's cold as the captain's glare out there."

Athos just runs his thumb over Aramis' hair again, and ignores the fact that it's July outside and humid as hell under all of Porthos' cloud. "Breakfast," he says, and hopes to make Aramis eat some of it.

There are problems getting to the cafeteria. Onto the corridor to its main doors Aramis suddenly freezes and then pulls back until he bumps Porthos' chest, attempting to get his arm out of Porthos' grip and get away, and he says, "No, no, he's - he's in there."

Athos looks at Aramis, looks at the door, says, "We need to get out of here before he -"

"On it," Porthos says, putting his arms around Aramis and turning them both so his back is between Aramis and that door, and Aramis would pull ahead too far if Porthos didn't keep a grip of his arm.

"Retreat, retreat," Aramis mutters through his teeth. "Where the hell do we -"

D'Artagnan says, "What's happening?"

"Richelieu is already in the cafeteria," Athos says, jaw too tight as he marches after his circle; damn Richelieu for being an early riser. "They can't be in the same room. He makes Aramis ill."

"More ill?"

"You have hardly glimpsed the iceberg." Athos says grimly, as Aramis finds a door and lets himself in. It's an office, Athos finds out as he follows his circle in, and d'Artagnan squeezes in with them - Serge's office, there's a meal schedule on a white board behind the desk, and the files scattered about are to do with catering supplies. There isn't really the room for the four of them, but Porthos puts Aramis in the chair behind the desk to keep him from prowling about, d'Artagnan sits on the edge of the desk, and Athos closes the door, watching through its frosted glass window suspiciously. Richelieu must pass this way, and how Aramis is going to react . . .

"I dislike retreat," Aramis says, if anything petulantly, scowling in his chair. "There's something unnatural about it."

"I get what you mean," Porthos says, slowly, "but s'probably still a better idea'n you and Richelieu facing up over the croissants."

"There were birds," Aramis says. "Ravens. I assume ravens, crows are solitary bastards, though with just as much of a taste for flesh and eyeballs."

"- Aramis?"

"It's not like it's the end of the world," he says, and rubs his arms as if cold, shivering them closer in. "But it does put me entirely out of sorts, retreat."

D'Artagnan looks studiously at a piece of paper on the desk and Athos finds himself irritated. "He's not mad." he says, too sharply. "He's disconnected from us in time. We just don't know what he's talking about yet."

D'Artagnan snaps, "I didn't say anything."

"The words were not required."

"I'm sick of this, I'm sick of you judging me every second just because I don't do exactly what you want exactly when you want it -"

"You are not being ordered to perform like a trained dog, you are being asked to consider your situation in a mature and sensible manner."

"- I'm not 'mature and sensible'? Did you actually just say that? We're hiding in someone else's office so he doesn't have to meet this -"

"Cardinal," Aramis supplies, looking guilty, like he's following this conversation enough to know that it's about him.

"Cardinal," d'Artagnan says. "Like the church? This gets better and b-"

"It's a nickname," Athos says. "It's just what he's always called him. Treville is the captain, Richelieu is the cardinal."

Eyes rolling, "And I'm 'd'Artagnan'."

"S'always made sense to me," Porthos says. "Life's different when your rift breaks, makes it make sense to have a different name for it."

Aramis has picked himself up from his seat to peer out of the window, mumbling, "It was unseasonably cold, that Easter."

D'Artagnan stares at him, and Athos feels the rage in the painful clench of his bones, snaps, "This isn't Bedlam, he's not there for you to stare at through the bars -"

"I want to help," d'Artagnan snaps back. "Alright? If you say I can make him better, fine, I want to help, he's nice when he's not - when he knows what's actually happening. But I can't just - I can't just turn it on like a tap, and you know I need - I need -"

Athos says, exhausted with his knowledge of this, "The only peace you will ever know is letting her go."

D'Artagnan grinds out through his teeth, "No." and lifts his hand, and it's glowing like a coal in the fire, too-bright amber under the skin. "I'll never know peace until I use this."

"It was Richelieu who put us all there," Aramis murmurs in archaic French, eyes distant through the window. "You always blamed Marsac but he lived through just the same as I did, he walked through the crows as well, and it was the Cardinal who put us there, in the blood and snow -"

Porthos says forcefully, "There's no snow, Aramis," and he's trying to push the chair out of the way so he can squeeze past to get to Aramis but in this tiny office, there's not really the space for it. Athos is concerned about something else, says very warily - of both the answer and of what he could push Aramis into when he's like this - "What do you mean, that Richelieu is to blame?"

"He has an affinity with crows." Aramis mutters, and the door behind Athos opens.

They were all over involved with Aramis, no-one heard the approach. Athos jumps in a way he's immediately embarrassed by, Porthos looks embarrassed behind the desk, and d'Artagnan slides off it to stand, affecting indifference at being caught sitting on someone else's desk. "What're-" Serge says, and looks confused. "Did you need me?" He looks over them. "All of you? I thought I locked . . ."

"Our apologies," Athos says, as Porthos moves so Serge can get behind his desk. "We wanted to check -" He calculates for a fraction of a second the truth against a lie, and Porthos jumps in with a smiling, "Vegan options?"

The truth will be more profitable. "Is Richelieu still in the cafeteria?" Athos says. "We would rather avoid him."

"On his phone last I checked him," Serge says, and clicks on to begin booting up his antique-looking computer. "An' his fifteenth cup of coffee, there's nothing to him but nerves an' caffeine."

"Still in there, though?" Athos says, and thinks, Damn.

"Could 'ave some stuff sent to the conference room," Serge offers, apparently patient while a machine that may date from whenever Aramis thinks he is is slowly, slowly pulling itself together to operate. Serge always does take his time, he never is in a hurry over anything. "Fruit an' pastry an' coffee. He used to have his in bed when he was young an' poorly, hot chocolate an' pastry, picked at it like a bird but he liked the hot chocolate. Where is he, this mornin'? Swore he was here a moment ago . . ."

Athos stares at Serge, then looks stupidly at the window where Aramis was, spins to take in the entire small room but it is only a small room and there is definitely no Aramis in it and the door is still open. Hell - hell - hell and fuck -

Porthos is already pushing his way past d'Artagnan for the door, shouting loud, "Aramis -"

"Aramis!" Athos calls, hurrying outside but the corridor is empty. "Aramis!"

D'Artagnan says, uneasily, "Do you want me to check the cafeteria?"

"Check our rooms," Athos says quickly, he needs to be there if Aramis has gone on his own to confront Richelieu in the cafeteria. "Porthos -"

"Gonna the pool," Porthos says, already striding off fast. "Aramis!"

D'Artagnan sprints off, quick as a spring deer; "Aramis!"

Athos runs down the corridor, bursts open the swing doors to the cafeteria - but there's no Aramis, and - Athos' neck runs cold - there's no Richelieu in here either. Shit. He'd forgotten the second exit in the far corner, they never use it, leading straight outside; Richelieu never needed to walk past them at all.

He jerks his phone out, fumbles it awake, stabs the map to pinpoint Aramis' alarm. He put it in Aramis' pocket himself this morning, tucking it into his jeans while Aramis just watched him drowsily, too tired to question anything though the alarm he's worn every day of his life since he was fourteen years old he looked at as if he had no idea what it was.

Aramis' alarm is flashing near the end of the corridor holding Treville's office. He's going to see Treville. Athos feels a glut of thankfulness and an immediately following rush of rage that Aramis has just upped and walked off on his own again -

But in all likelihood he doesn't even know he's doing it. All Athos can do is clench his fist around his phone and stride off for Treville's office after him. Collect his water affinity, his air affinity will probably meet him there after he didn't find Aramis in the immediate place he expected. Then all they have to do is get their fire affinity rounded up as well, and if they can hold themselves together without snapping at each other for an hour they may yet survive this, all four of them, together.

They need their togetherness. None of them can survive alone. And vulnerable as he is now and especially with Richelieu in the building, Aramis least of all . . .