Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Athos." There's a breath of incredulity to his name being called from behind.

There's barely a moment to react, Athos turning his head towards the sound when a fist connects abruptly with his jaw, knocking him back.

There's a shout from Porthos and a skirmish and by the time he glances back up from where he's leaned over, hand against his quickly-bruising jaw, Porthos and Aramis have gripped between them a stripling with a furious gaze and vice-like determination set to his jaw.

He's tall, tan and young, but Athos wouldn't mistake the force behind his fist as anything other than trained. Had his expression not been set so stone, Athos could see the boy as almost disarming.

They take a moment to look each other over– or at least Athos does, appraising the boy. The boy, for his turn, never once sets his gaze away from Athos' own.

The boys' not in any recognizeable uniform despite the building they're currently residing in, which raises curiosities that Athos crushes for the moment in agitation.

"What is your business with me?"

"You betrayed my brother."

A leaden silence drags out too long.

"You are mistaken."

The words seem to alight something within the boy and he moves forwards again, faster than any of the three inseparables were expecting.

He's nearly slipped through the clearance between Porthos and Aramis before Porthos' arm is raised and catches him about the middle, tossing him back again.  Whatever training he's had, there isn't a hope between the three of them.

"Alright, alright already. Enough of that."

"Are you not Athos?" There's a wavering in the boys' voice now, no less of fury– Athos with sharp recognition sees the pain that he's concealed underneath it.

Aramis turns to raise his brows towards Athos and Athos sighs before replying.

"I am."

"Then it was you." But he doesn't make to move forwards again. "I heard him say it myself. Athos." The words seem to cost the boy some of his resolve, gaze flickering indecipherably between the three men before him.

Athos decides to ignore that uncertainty.

"And where was this?" Aramis' gaze locks sharply with his over his shoulder, surprise that Athos' is entertaining this, but amused nonetheless.

 "Wickett."

It's only a single word, but Athos knows it instantly. The Spec Ops mission that had cost William his life– one that Athos had no been present for.

Which made this boy Williams brother.

"What is your name?" There's sharpness to Athos' tone now that catches both Aramis' and Porthos' attentions.

"d'Artagnan." The boys voice wavers from the depth of whatever emotion is gripping him. Athos can take a gander at which.

The answer Athos could have reached himself; William had never given a first name to his sibling, or any other details, almost as strongly private about his personal life as Athos himself.

The shock must register on Athos' face, because something shifts on d'Artagnans face again, a flash of devastation before it shutters off and shifts.

It's at this precise moment the buildings alarms start blaring.

–––

d'Artagnan takes the opening, distracted as the group is by the alarm. He dives this time under the reach of the larger man who's gaze has turned, startled, and tackles Athos to the floor.

They tumble back painfully, Athos vicious in his own return as he shoves d'Artagnan away with force.

They're both on their feet again, the loud ringing in d'Artagnans own ears drowning out the sound of the alarms as he throws himself forwards again.

Athos dodges easily and with all the prodigal study of the special agent he is– d'Artagnan returns it in force with all the studious fury of a young, vengeful man.

What he lacks in finesse he makes up for in speed, emotions controlling his movements. They go back and forth this way, blow for blow, d'Artagnan evening out against Athos despite the roughness of his moves.

d'Artagnan lands a punch to Athos hip, leaving himself too exposed and the man returns an elbow, sharp and precise to the juncture of d'Artagnans neck and shoulder.

He collapses with a startled shout, the pain like lightning through his body, brutally effective.

There's no chance to get his feet under him before Athos is down on the ground with him, wrists grabbed bruisingly in his fingers as he flips d'Artagnan onto his back. d'Artagnan grimaces where his cheek is pressed into the ground.

He struggles a moment, but stills with a grimac at the painful twisting of his arm.

"Stay down and listen." Athos is speaking loudly to be heard over the alarms. There's a knee against his back and d'Artagnan feels for all the world like a boy again.

"Yes, I knew your brother–" Athos presses harder down at d'Artagnans sudden renewed effort to get away, "but I did not kill him."

d'Artagnan swallows roughly but makes no more move to struggle from Athos' grasp.

"For what it's worth– I'm sorry. He was a good man." The words leave d'Artagnan breathless, and Athos seems to mean them, regret coloring his tone.

d'Artagnan believes him.

"As entertainin' as this alls been, anyone care to fill in the peanut gallery about what's going on?" The large mans voice causes some of the pressure to lean off of d'Artagnans' back, Athos going to reply.

It's at this moment precisely that the doors behind them fling open with volatility, a group of men both uniformed and armed stepping into the room.

"The Musketeer Athos is under arrest for high treason." One of them declares loudly.

There's a shocked silence in the room, and d'Artagnan can't see the confused faces being passed around above him, but he can picture them just as well.

"Well that doesn't seem right," Aramis mumbles unhelpfully and the pressure against d'Artagnans back is suddenly alleviated as two of the soldiers grip Athos harshly under the arms to pull him to a stand.

d'Artagnan is off the floor in record time, confusion burning bright in his eyes. The other two men who had been with Athos make to step forward,  this time the smaller man placing a staying hand against the largers forearm.

"What crimes?" The large mans' voice booms over the alarms, straining but not from the volume he speaks at. The group of soldiers are leaving the room, ignoring the mans' address even when it's repeated at their retreating backs.

Athos for his part, turns and tips his head in the other twos' direction, both of them backing down in immediate response as they disappear around the corner.

d'Artagnan realizes belatedly that the alarms have quieted sometime during the event, and now only he and the remaining two are left standing in the room. His eyes turn to them warily, noting their confusion and anger.

Their attention finally turn his way and the shorter of them speaks first, a reproachfulness in his voice as though he intends to feel d'Artagnan out.

"If he claims it wasn't him, then it wasn't him."

d'Artagnan swallows, eyes casting about the ground a moment, defeat in the set of his shoulders but determination still in the scrunching of his brow.

"...I believe him."

"Prove it, then. Help us." Aramis seems quick to turn the situation on it's head and demand favors. d'Artagnan supposed he can't particularly blame him– had the situations been reversed, he'd be inclined to do the same.

"And you'll help me find who did it?" d'Artagnan flinches at the ragged edges of his own voice, the needy desperation; he's given too much away already, he can tell by the way the other two look at each other, the larger man returning the shorter mans' gaze with a shrug.

The larger man steps forward then, offering his hand.

"Sure. I'm Porthos. And that one there's Aramis," he hooks a thumb over his shoulder in the other mans'– Aramis' –direction.

d'Artagnan nods silently in response, but Porthos doesn't seem to take it negatively, pulling his hand back without second comment.

"So how'd you get in here?"

d'Artagnan face grows hot before he replies, trying for a tone that isn't defensive.

"I...work here."

Both Aramis and Porthos' eyebrows shoot up at this, a small smile even finding Aramis' face before he replies.

"A field agent?"

A shake of his head before he clarifies.

"Handler."

"Could've fooled me with those moves," Porthos offers in return.

"I used to–," he changes his mind mid-sentence. "I have experience." Even that feels like too much to say, because Porthos eyes look him up and down assessingly.

"We've got to talk to Captain Treville." Aramis speaks this time with a sigh, cutting through their short conversation and beckoning as he heads for the door. Porthos follows shortly after and d'Artagnan isn't sure whether or not to when Porthos reaches the door and realizes d'Artagnan isn't behind him.

"You comin'?"

d'Artagnan pauses before nodding and moving to catch up.

–––

Trevilles office is on a floor level d'Artagnan has never been to. There are intermediaries for conversation between the top brass downwards– handlers deal with information optics, and that doesn't usually involve interaction with the agents or those up top.

For all the important support a handlers job take up, it isn't a particularly recognized job. It's really a fundamental part of the reason d'Artagnan had taken it.

In this sort of place, he can be invisible. He finds it's easier to be invisible.

d'Artagnans gaze is on the back of the two men in front of him, Aramis and Porthos, as they lead him along an unrecognizable path of the building.

Aramis doesn't hesitate when he goes to knock on the door, but Porthos turns back long enough to place a hand out at d'Artagnans chest.

"Wait out here," and it isn't said unkindly, but d'Artagnan has a sudden and immediate suspicion around the reasons he'd been allowed to follow them up; was it only to keep an eye on him?

That gets under his skin, though he settles for a grimacing frown and a nod of his head as he steps back until he's leaned against the wall.

Trevilles voice comes from within, beckoning the others in, and the door closes promptly behind them, barring d'Artagnan effectively from the conversation.

It gives d'Artagnan a few moments to think– about what led him here, and why. It's not typical, that much can be said, for family to be paired to one another. But his brother requested him as often as he could, until they'd become a tag team.

They worked well together– they always had, even when they'd been out in the field together, with their backs up against a wall. There hadn't ever been a time when he'd been unable to rely on William, or William on him to get out of any situation.

He hadn't understood back then, when d'Artagnan had taken a step back from the field. They weren't the same that way. He couldn't let go of the past, not when it wore his brothers face to look at him, not even when William had absolved him.

At the time, d'Artagnan had thought not a single day could have ever felt worse; not until he'd been left, stranded and helpless on the other end of the line.

He'd thought his days in the special forces were through until then, until he'd heard Athos' name breathed down the line.

Their tag team had failed. d'Artagnan had failed his brother. All that's left was this, petty revenge.

William deserved better.

Whatever conversation was being had in the office was abrupt, for the door opened again not five minutes later, catching the attention d'Artagnan pointed down the hall quickly enough for him to catch the surprise on Aramis' face.

"You're still here." d'Artagnan isn't sure how to read his tone, so he settles for a nod.

"Good. We have some things to ask of you." It's approximately then that d'Artagnan recognizes the approval in Aramis' voice, and he wets his lips nervously to speak.

"I have details on the op back at my desk; we can go through them there."

"Lead the way, then."

d'Artagnan steps forward without hesitation, leads them back through the winding maze of corridors Porthos and Aramis had originally led him through without a moment hesitation until they arrive at the elevator.

There's a jitteriness set into his d'Artagnans shoulders that he can't seem to shake. He's not sure he can identify the feeling, but it feels raw and unstable.

He swallows heavily past it as they step into the elevator and he presses the button for the 19th floor.

There's only a moment of silence before Porthos clears his throat to speak from where he's taken up his stance behind d'Artagnan.

"So you were a soldier." It's a question without being phrased as one, and with it comes the realization that d'Artagnans hands are clasped behind his back, feet pressed wide in a recognizable stance.

He breaks it immediately, adjusting his arms to sit crossed over his chest self-consciously, turning only just enough to catch Porthos eyes.

"I was. My brother and I," the pain that lances through his chest must be obvious on his face, because both Porthos and Aramis' brows crease sympathetically and d'Artagnan pushes onwards forcefully through the small break in his words, crushing down his embarrassment, "worked spec ops together before he took his job here."

"Only him?"

"He had a way of talking me into things. I followed sometime after." d'Artagnan offers an awkward smile and a one-shoulder shrug before the elevator bell dings and the doors open behind him, conversation effectively ended as he makes to lead them to his desk.

The corridor is wide, and unlike the upstairs rooms which feel more private and office-based, the rooms here are large, dark, and open, divided sparingly by glaring glass.

The back of many of the rooms are lined with TVs that pass numbers, statistics, news, or large-scale projectors. People who move down the hallways have places to be, though d'Artagnan nods to a few in passing.

"Never been down here," Porthos mentions off-handedly.

"Never had a reason?" d'Artagnan offers, passing a look to him over his shoulders. "We tend to keep to ourselves."

"So I've noticed."

d'Artagnan makes his way to one of the doors in one of the few solid walls and props it open for the two following.

The outside to inside is deceptive, the room lined with largely spaced desks each filled with two screens. The room itself looks chaotic, most of the desks sprawled with paper work, usbs and odd gadgets and tech.

Besides the tech that is placed upon the tops of  desk, the room seems to be dated compared to the rest of the floor, but it's mostly by way of preference. While not handling active ops, d'Artagnan and the other agents call these desks home for long hours of research and case analysis.

d'Artagnans' desk isn't any different than the others when they make their way towards it, sprawled with blueprints, quickly scribbled notes and crumpled wrappers that until this very moment, d'Artagnan had managed to forget about.

He grimaces at the mess before passing the others a sheepish sile as he sits and pulls a bin from beneath the desk, tugging and tossing away trash until there's enough room for Aramis and Porthos to pull up chairs to his desk besides him.

Aramis grabs a chair from an unoccupied desk, straddling it backwards but Porthos seems comfortable to stand, hip leaned to the metal desk.

"...the operations name was Wickett." He eyes the other two, who don't comment on the trepidation in d'Artagnans voice, other than for Porthos to offer him a gesture that means 'go on'.

The computer's already on when d'Artagnan begins clicking through folders with unintelligble file names a mix of numbers and letters– he doesn't realize he's been staring blankly at one until Aramis speaks.

"Is that what you wanted to show us?"

d'Artagnan swallows, eyes fixed to the file, sitting alone in it's own folder before he tears his eyes from the screen, offers the others a single nod and gestures to the headphones sitting on the other monitor.

"You can have a listen with those."

There are two pairs and he makes no move to pick one of them up as the the other two put them on and oblige him his space. d'Artagnan leans back, takes his hand from the mouse and allows it to be replaced by Aramis' who clicks into the file without hesitation.

It's something of a curse, that d'Artagnan can hear it even without hearing it. It replays in his head, oftentimes at night when he tries to sleep– as well as his own role in it all.

The file player shows nothing more than the bars of intonation, a squiggling line that represents sound– and d'Artagnan knows how each and every single one of them sounds aloud in his head as the clip plays through, as he'd played it back to back on repeat for clues, or if only to torment himself.

–––

There's the sound of William's heavy breath. And Charles sights the lines around the building as clear.

"Clear," Charles voice rings, eyes mapping along the screens to keep an eye on his brothers' back through multiple camera feeds.

"The files are 4 halls down on the right, the fifth door." William's moving without replying, Charles voice a quiet prompting in his ear.

"I don't think I'm alone."

That catches Charles attention, eyes passing along the camera feeds, unable to locate the source of Williams' suspicion. He flips through them, alternates his view–

"There's nothing I can see on the screens."

His feed goes dead.

"I'm blind." The panic in Charles' voice is crushed under a professionally smooth veneer. It doesn't matter because William knows him.

"I'm almost to the room now."

"You should pull out."

"You're panicking."

"I'm not panicking. Something's wrong."

There's silence, and for a long moment, Charles is sure he's lost him. He grits his teeth, fends off the panic that builds in his gut.

"I'm in the room." The relief he feels is unparalleled, but short lived; there's the sound of a gun going off, far too close.

"Pull out!" This time Charles voice is not an option, not a conversation. He's blind, unable to assess the situation or keep an eye on Williams' back. It's the first time since the incident that he's thought he should be there, that William would be safer if he were.

"Where could they have come from?" There's surprise coloring Williams' voice, grit out between clenched teeth and Charles fingers are a flurry across the keyboard as he tries desperately to pull up the feed– any feed at all. "There's so many of them."

All imaging for the area seems fully dead, as impossible and unlikely as it could be. There's too much gunfire and only the breathing of William, too distracted by the action to take the time to speak.

There's a moment reprieve as he must find shelter somewhere and finally speaks.

"This is wrong. Something's wrong."

"I know, I know, I'm working on it."

"No, it's not that. This is a set up."

Charles' blood runs cold.

"Don't move. I'm getting a unit together."

"I'm completely surrounded, Charles. I'll be dead by the time they get here."

"You'll be dead if you go out there."

"I have to try."

"There's nothing else?" Something is tearing inside of Charles, he thinks. William can hear it. Charles can hear it as well.

It's all happened so fast– too fast. Only a moment has passed since things were okay. He should have read into the situation sooner.

"There's nothing else."

"I can pull in a nearby helicopter for overhead cover. The unit is only 20 minutes out, if you can hold out that long."

"...It's not possible, Charles. If you could see it–"

"Twenty minutes."

"I don't have twenty minutes."

"Shit. Okay. Just– hold on." He's sprung up notices all around him, searched for closer re-inforcements, anything that can move in time. There's nothing at all.

The ringing in Charles' ears is getting louder. He realizes belatedly that Will is speaking.

"Listen, Charles. It was never your fault. Not then, and not now. Okay?"

"You can tell me that in person."

William laughs.

"Maybe when I get back."

Charles can hear the exact moment he starts moving, a grunt as he lifts himself from where he's hidden and moves away, the harsh banging of bullets as they're fired.

The blood is pounding in Charles' ears, a cocaphony of his heart against his ribcage so loud he almost doesn't notice the dead silence that has permeated the other end.

The sound of gunshots has faded, and Charles doesn't realize William is talking to someone until he replies, missing entirely the other end of the conversation.

"Athos?" And the tone of his voice is furious and confused. Charles startles.

"Who–" the rest of his statement is lost against the sound of a gunshot far too close and the breath his brother releases, sharp and pained. 

"Status." Charles voice is quietly ragged then, desperation coloring it's inflection.

"Status. William, please."

There is only the quiet, wet rasping on the other end until it tapers into silence– it's the loudest silence Charles has ever heard.

The channel promptly turns to static as whoever is still there on the other end destroys the receiver.

–––

Aramis and Porthos are setting down the heaphones they were wearing. d'Artagnan can't at first get himself to look up and catch their eyes– not until he's steeled himself against whatever he's about to see in them. He doesn't think he could survive their pity.

Porthos gaze he catches first and is surprised to see his mouth set against something furious, jaw set and expression grimly drawn.

It's Aramis this time who's expression has turned into soft sympathy, and that of which d'Artagnan can't bear to look at without something uncomfortable growing hot in his gut, so he clears his throat and draws their attention away.

"You heard it, right? His name?"

This seems to clear the moment from the air and Aramis gives a pensive nod, arms settling across his chest as he makes to think a moment.

"We need to talk to Athos." His statement is tentative, his eyes against d'Artagnan assessing. "It's clear he knew your brother in some capacity. We just need to learn how."

Porthos nods his agreement, but the fury doesn't clear from his expression and he's silent otherwise.

"I'll do some digging of my own here then."

Aramis nods and moves to stand.

"Let us know if you turn anything up."

They exchange contact details and numbers before they leave, assuring d'Artagnan that they'll update him on whatever necessary information they can.

They don't offer him any condolences, of which d'Artagnan is immensely grateful, though Porthos look softens into something incomprehensible and d'Artagnan feels a stinging in his chest when he sees it.

It looks like pity.

He makes his way back to his desk and has only just sat when Constance enters the room, catches his eye with a curious raising of her brow, no doubt having caught sight of the retreating forms of Aramis and Porthos.

d'Artagnan is too tired to talk– too tired to explain, so he offers only the shrugging of his shoulders and a weary smile that Constance, god bless her, gracefully accepts as she turns back to her own desk and work.

d'Artagnan's too aimless at first, clicking aimlessly through records of the scene, the lead up, and the information without much in the ways of clues or lucks.

The outline look flawless, spotlessly clean and thought out.

It's already late and he's not making any headway. In the end he gives up for the night with a frustrated sigh. He's tired, but it doesn't matter. When he gets home, he lies awake in bed running the dialogue of the file over and over in his head until he'd exhausted enough to pass out.

-----------

He's early in the next day, nodding his hello to the security guard on shift who he knows by name and not pausing once until he's arrived back at the office.

The dejection of the night before hasn't really worn off, but there's a determined set to his shoulder that he props up with the help of an overly-strong coffee that's currently gripped in his hand.

d'Artagnan stops abruptly in the entryway to the office when he spots two familiar forms sitting at his desk, Porthos swivelling idly in his computer seat. It takes a moment to remind himself to move, and he arrives at his desk still with the same surprised expression on his face.

"Did you guys find something?"

Aramis turns to look at him, a grin broadening across his face.

"Not at all." That response seems awry with his current expression, but d'Artagnan doesn't question it. The confusion of their current situation must appear on his face however, because Porthos throws him a bone.

"We talked to Athos about your brother."

d'Artagnans shoulders tense.

"They have history. Worked together a few times. Apparently William and him were close– as close as two agents could be." Porthos gaze was puzzled at this, like he couldn't fathom the thought.

He let off with a shrug.

"Doesn't seem to be much beyond that, unfortunately. Come sit, lad. We've brought breakfast since Constance informed us you tend to skip out."

"Oh. I've got coffee." d'Artagnan gestures honestly at the cup on his desk and can't help but frown at the pitying expression Aramis gives him.

"Right. Well. What'd you get?" d'Artagnan looks around futily for a seat before dragging one over and crowding into the space behind his desk with Aramis and Porthos.

The desk is designed to be purposefully large, an amiable workspace for up to two, but with Porthos bulk and the crowding of all of d'Artagnans knick knacks, there isn't much left in the way of desk-top space.

Porthos reaches into the bag sitting beside him and slides d'Artagnan over a sandwich before passing another to Aramis, and d'Artagnan is struck by the realization that they've waited for him to come in to eat with him.

d'Artagnan is staring at his sandwich instead of eating, sorting through the words in his head. When he speaks, the words come slowly and a very careful absence of confusion.

"You know, you don't have to hang out with me. If I find any information, I'll let you guys know first thing."

"We know," Porthos speaks through a moutful of food and doesn't offer much else.

There's a small discomfort in d'Artagnans chest again.

"If this is pity–," but his dialogue is cut off by Aramis before he can get too into it.

"It's not." The words come coolly, and when d'Artagnan meets Aramis' gaze, he finds only honesty. "You're interesting, d'Artagnan, and a brother to our brothers'...," Aramis trails off, some calculation going on in his mind at the odd phrasing.

"Your brother was a friend of our friend, making you our brother," Porthos rescues Aramis from his confusion and claps a hand against Aramis' shoulder in tacit agreement.

"Okay." d'Artagnan doesn't quite believe them, but he doesn't push the issue, turning back to the food in his hands.

They finish their food quietly, chatting all the while until at some point Aramis sighs.

"There's more bureaucracy we must attend to, I'm afraid. Mostly in delaying any royal verdict involving Athos. There's talk of an execution." Aramis frowns at his own words, Porthos expression stormy.

"It won't come to that." d'Artagnans tone is determined, catching both Aramis' and Porthos attention and Aramis offers him a softer smile for his efforts.

They say their goodbyes and Aramis and Porthos finally leave, d'Artagnan watching their backs a moment too long as they go.

Chapter Text

It's far too late by the time he forces himself to put his headphones on again, to play through the sound clip slowly, taking painful note of every single sound discernable in the background as he does so.

The other desks have been vacated, the hour on the clock reads past midnight and exhaustion has set itself deep into d'Artagnans shoulders.

Nothing he hears is new. All of it hurts so deeply and so repetitively from d'Artagnans many other late-night stints listening to it over and over again, that at some point he's become numb.

Set up. William had called it a set up.

He pauses the audio, re–runs it again.

A set up.

d'Artagnan runs a tired hand over his face, leaned on his elbows against his desk.

The mission notes are still as flawless as before. He stares at them blankly like they'll offer something up to him.

There was always a blip to fix, a correction to make on other mission set-ups. This one had been organized and handed to him for correction. He'd looked over every detail himself, re-confirmed it all down to the number of personnel. It had been flawless.

How could that be? The video feed went down far too convenviently– the area had been wiped clean of all the detailing or back up at some point before the mission.

It was too clean.

Everything had been wrapped up tidily– the parameters of the mission had kept d'Artagnan from even questioning the locale of back up or reinforcement. The phrasing of the job made it seem in and out, and by all the secondary research d'Artagnan had done into it, it should have been just as much.

That doesn't connect any of it to Athos in any way. Aramis had mentioned his name being passed around by some anonymous higher ups, looking to somehow pin the blame to him as a return for a longterm grudge against William.

It was what had drawn d'Artagnan after Athos after all– some mysterious history neither of them spoke of. Despite it all, d'Artagnan believe Aramis and Porthos both, even Athos himself, when they claimed it wasn't true.

It made the odd connection even more infuriating to work out. William had never mentioned Athos to him; he'd had a life as an agent before d'Artagnan had taken up commission finally after him.

The truth could only mean one particular thing. All of this was proof of an inside job. Not by Athos or another agent. They wouldn't have enough sway. It had to be by someone higher up the food chain.

d'Artagnan throws back the rest of his coffee in an effort to force his body towards wakefulness. He has to go back to the scene– the cameras, or the system there would have had to have been tapped manually with hardware, it was the only explanation for why d'Artagnan had been unable to pull up the feed again; if he could find that piece, he'd be a step closer to the truth.

It's not that easy. d'Artagnan stands at his seat, mind racing with the realization.

He has to put a plan together or it will all fall through. It's already been too many nights for the evidence sitting there to have been cleared out and d'Artagnan can't risk another. He has to work under the assumption that whoever planned this is still watching.

But he can't sit on his hands anymore, every hour that passes another chance for the evidence to disappear just when no one is looking.

It's not enough to show up in what he's wearing, unarmed and vulnerable– so he tries something more risky.

The path through the building is as familiar as the back of his hand. It's not where d'Artagnan spends any amount of time on the job, but after work, he'd meet his brother back at the lockers countless times.

When he gets there, it's still labeled, the tape that proudly states ' d'Artagnan' across a grey, height-lengthed locker.

He tugs it open and all of his brothers gear is still there, most likely stuck in paper processing hell and sitting until it's all been filed succinctly away. Something catches in d'Artagnans throat and he stares at it far too long and misty-eyed before he begins tugging the gear from within.

The gear is familiar and unfamiliar in his hands; the black clothes are his brothers own, a spare outfit or two left for emergencies that d'Artagnan slips into the bag he's brought alone.

He's been ignoring it, but the picture of the two of them, Williams arms slung around d'Artagnans shoulder, both in their military uniforms from long ago, stares him in the face until he tugs it from the tape keeping it held and folds it to slip into his pocket.

He closes the locker with a quiet click and makes his way out of the building, waving goodnight to the guard working the desk on his way out.

The drive back to his house feels too long, fingers jittery on the steering wheel as he thinks. The place is guarded, that much is sure, a large foreign corporation that holds key documents that could be used against France– the reason William had been sent in in the first place.

d'Artagnan doesn't care too much about the documents themselves, having surely been moved at this point. Whatever subterfuge had went down there has surely put the embassy guards on high alert, even if the goal was only to access the camera control center, attached to the guards tower along the outside.

The most important aspect is getting in and out without attaching a name or controlling entity to the crime.

d'Artagnan arrives home only long enough to shower, eat a hasty meal and change into the clothes he's borrowed.

They all fit well like a second skin despite d'Artagnan having always been the more wirey of the two of them.

He tugs on gloves, kevlar jacket designed for movement and leaves the long neck of the shirt that doubles as a mask tucked into the jackets collar for now. The blueprints are retraced in his head, quiet murmuring under his breath as he slips out his old gun and two knives the he tucks into the folds of his clothes.

The last thing he wants to do is actually use them, but he reckons he'll have to at some point. The gun will call too much attention, but it's insurance for his life.

It's a long drive– the building located an hours drive out. By the time d'Artagnan arrives two street corners away, the clock on his dashboard reads 3am. It's a better time than most to be carrying out a quiet plan under the cover of dark.

It strikes him momentarily that it's been a long time since he's been on this side of the action, and without eyes to watch his back, the dynamics of it are all entirely different.

The leak is internal, though, and d'Artagnan knows better than to call attention to himself before he's able to get his hands on any evidence.

He grabs his laptop, pauses long enough in consternation to bite at his lower lip in guilt before he hacks into the Musketeers access online. From there, brute-forcing his way into the camera feed on the building allows him to double-check the perimeter and insides.

The camera feeds are back, whoever it is having taken control of them not wanting to risk detection. It's dicey, this choice of action. It either proves that whatever evidence d'Artagnan is heading out to claim no longer exists or may alert the other of his intervention.

The guards have surely doubled, patrols rounding the large facility once every 15 minutes. d'Artagnan should have expect as much, though he still swears under his breath. It feels a little like a suicide mission, but impulse control has never been his strong point.

A lead towards the truth is right there and d'Artagnan couldn't turn away from it if he tried. It's with this resolve he steps from the car, tugs the neck of his shirt up over his mouth and nose and takes a solidifying breath.

He knows the blueprints like he's drawn them himself, knows exactly where he needs to go to find the potential hardware if it hasn't already been removed and has the newest timetable for the guards. He doesn't plan to be there long at all.

What could possibly go wrong?

So it's only right that nothing could go so smoothly as all of that. d'Artagnan should have known better. He can nearly hear Williams' chiding voice in his head, how he thinks too much with his heart and not nearly enough with his head.

He encounters no more than 4 separate guards on his way to the outpost tower, security amped up to be airtight, and although d'Artagnan had checked and double-checked the timetables it seems suddenly clear something is off.

The building is on high alert– how they would have been noted of his eyes in their system, he can only assume the mole in their system knows.

He braces himself for a long night.

It seems in their haste to buff their fortress appearance, the guards themselves lack specialized training. It doesn't make them easy targets, but d'Artagnan manages to drop the first three without taking any mission-ending wounds.

It doesn't do anything to ease the blows he finds himself on the receiving end of, the cracking of knuckles against his eye socket that has him seeing stars before he regains his sense of spcial awareness and swipes the mans feet out from under him.

He straddles the man before he has a chance to move, breath coming hard as his knuckles come down in a force of their own and the man goes still beneath him. d'Artagnan takes a moment to catch his breath, blinks the the blurriness from his vision.

His ribs feel cracked and bruised, every breath like another blow while a cut over his eye and along his lip bleed profusely without any seeming intent to stop.

He shoves it down, the pain he feels until it becomes a fidgeting numbness in the back of his mind, aware that once the adrenaline disappears he will crash– he's had worse.

d'Artagnan stands, swallowing down against the concerning way his stomach turns and continue towards the guard tower, still too far to have been notified of the nights going-ons. It won't be long before the bodies of the other men are discovered and an alert is sent out, and it's only by d'Artagnans fast moving and a minor miracle that he's avoided it so far.

There's another guard at the tower when he arrives, but he's kneeled low, back turned as he tugs a metal panel from the counter.

d'Artagnan stays low, just under view of the counter as he comes along the side, tries to plan his next movement carefully, aware of the stitches in his side and the nausea in his stomach in some dim way.

His brows furrow in confusion when he sees the man tug at wiring, pulling from inside a small metal...something that's wrapped around the wires inside. He's pulling out some wire clippers and has only just clipped the ends from either side of the object when d'Artagnan speaks.

"Don't move." He's got his gun raised to the back of the mans head and the man himself freezes, object still in hand, wire clippers in the other. It's become increasingly clear to d'Artagnan that the man is not at all a guard and that whatever is in his hands may just be the evidence d'Artagnan had come to retrieve.

"Who are you?" He adds, voice harsh and demanding.

"I work here." The mans' voice is wavering.

"No you don't. Who are you."

There's too long of a pause and d'Artagnan is considering knocking him out before he gets any smart ideas when the man speaks.

"No one you'll remember."

d'Artagnan promptly decides that he's heard enough, anger rising quickly in his gut, and he lifts his gun to knock the man out.

Only the man is quicker, shifting around to grip d'Artagnans wrist and kicking out into the side of d'Artagnans knee and dropping him.

A struggle ensues, d'Artagnans grip on the firearm loosening against the prying of the mans fingers to his own.

The man shoves d'Artagnan against the wall bodily and the pain in his chest is alive again with a flair so powerful d'Artagnans vision wavers before he gets his feet beneath him, kicking out from the support of the wall and knocking the man back.

He doesn't release d'Artagnans wrist and they're pulled back together, d'Artagnan landing across the man bodily, the gun caught between them in a struggle.

d'Artagnan doesn't notice the man has pulled his wire cutters out until he sees his raise his arm, both of d'Artagnans own hands occupied and unable to block against the assault quickly enough, the stinging burn plows through his senses as the cutters whip across his cheek, the cut of them sharp enough that he almost can't feel how bad it is.

Not until the blood starts.

The man flips them in d'Artagnans momentary daze and the gun is being wrenched at from his hand so brutally he realizes there isn't another option here–

He kicks the man with the heel of his boot in the stomach and aims for his shoulder.

The gunshot rips through the night, the man crying out as he drops to his knees and d'Artagnan doesn't hesitate before he takes the grip to his template, effectively knocking him out.

He's panting now, a gloved hand rising to his cheek and coming away slick with pouring blood that he feels warm through his mask that he has to pull down and away from his mouth to breathe.

It's deep enough to need stitches, but not deep enough for d'Artagnan to bother worrying about now. There's no time and he tucks the gun away hastily, dives to grab the device from the ground and tuck it into a pocket before looking back over at the man with gritted teeth.

Everything in his body is screaming, adrenaline fending off the worst of it for now– but he can't leave the man. He has information, of that much d'Artagnan is sure of.

He grounds his teeth and lugs the man up over his shoulders, body protesting in every limb and joint, ribs aching sharply and nausea flaring as he moves from the security post at a jog, boots heavy on the ground. It's at the fence that he remembers the mans wire cutters and wastes precious time dropping him on the ground and and returning to the guard booth.

Already he can see activity off in the distance, his run turning to full tilt on his return.

Clipping through the fence takes precious time he can't afford before he bends the fencing back with a boot and steps through, turning back to drag the man behind him.

There's a heavy streak of red blood left along the pavement as d'Artagnan, chest heaving, lifts the man again across his shoulders and forces himself into a run.

He's sweating from all parts of himself now, drenched from a mixture of sticking blood and thick sweat that rolls along with the nausea he chews back against. The only thing keeping him moving is knowing the car is near, escape imminent.

He cannot be caught here, and he won't be.

There's no care to the way d'Artagnan drops the man onto the back seat, not able to take the time to evaluate his shoulder wound. He nows his aim to be true, through and through, and isn't concerned about him bleeding out.

He takes a precious moment to knot the mans wrists together with a piece of rope.

He pulls out into the street in a flurry of burning rubber and settles along the backroads, although at this point he's sure no one is following him– they must have been aware no one had entered the premises. He's been driving for 20 minutes when it occurs to him he has no idea of his next steps.

Bringing the man back to headquarters for interrogation without notifying anyone at all could put it all at risk of being unravelled by whoever is behind it all.

It's only another 10 minutes before the exhaustion hits, adrenaline wearing thin. He pulls over abruptly on some random side street just in time to open his door to be sick and wipe at his face, hand coming away red.

d'Artagnan picks up his phone with shaky fingers, struggles a moment before setting it down only a moment to tear off his gloves and try again.

He calls Porthos first and is surprised when he answers on the second ring. The dash says it's 3am.

–––

Porthos wakes with a start, phone buzzing against his counter and eyes popping open as though he's been expecting it.

It's always been a running joke between the three musketeers that Porthos could sleep through anything– it's only the ringing of his phone that wakes him without fail, like he can sense trouble even in his sleep.

" d'Artagnan?" His voice is rough from sleep and confusion, and when he glances at the clock, he finds only his worry growing. He's thrown back the covers without realizing, feet on the floor as he listens to the odd silence on the other end of the line.

The breathing is too heavy, there's a wheeze in it as well before d'Artagnan speaks.

"I did something." There's sheepishness in his voice and Porthos sighs.

"I'm going to need a little more, lad."

"Do you or Aramis know any first aid?"

Porthos curses, now fully awake and trying to dress with one hand still pressing the phone to his ear.

"Aramis does, I'll call him. Where are you?"

d'Artagnan lists off his address, quickly adding he's about thirty minutes out still.

"And you're driving? How bad are you?"

"I can make it there." He doesn't say anything for his well-being beyond that and Porthos grimaces disapprovingly with recognition even though d'Artagnan can't see it.

"Meet you there, then."

d'Artagnan hangs up without a note of goodbye and Porthos is on the phone to Aramis only a moment later.