Chapter Text
When the sun rose on Wednesday morning, Aramis had no idea the dangerous tasks that awaited him. He had been working in Paris for the last few months for Treville, tracking down an asset while renting an apartment near the Latin Quarter, where he could disappear amidst the tourists while he did his work. It was supposed to be a good day. He had secured the asset, the job was done, and Treville had called him into the offices for his next assignment.
If only his head wasn’t pounding with the regret of a night spent drinking with Athos in celebration. Aramis fell out of the bed when he rolled too far, his cell phone ringing far too loudly.
“Why?” Aramis pleaded. “Why do you insist on drinking enough to replace the pints of blood in my body?”
Athos was lying on the other side of the bed, groaning weakly. “I’m fine for it,” he protested. “I don’t see why you’re complaining.”
Aramis tripped over his feet, but managed to grab his cell phone and open the blinds in one fell swoop, sending bright light right into Athos’ eyes. He grinned smugly at Athos’ cry of pain. “Aramis,” he answered his phone. “Go ahead,” he urged, ignoring Athos’ drunken slurs and profanity.
“You’re late.”
“Treville,” Aramis sighed, rubbing his forehead as he tried to find a clock. He stumbled over Athos’ prone body, catching his foot on Athos’ torso and realizing he was late for their meeting. “I haven’t forgotten,” he swore. “I’ll be there.”
“Bring Athos,” Treville said, before hanging up.
Aramis pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t slept well. He’d dreamed those strange dreams again, the ones of a Paris long past and the most remarkably audacious and ornamental hat and clothes. Athos was there, along with a young boy, and a face from Aramis’ past that he would never (could never) forget.
“Why do I let you convince me to drink so much?” Aramis demanded, closing his eyes and taking a moment to bask in the dull silence of early morning.
Athos stirred, enough to sit up sluggishly. “I’m your only friend.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Aramis plucked his hat from the stand when he had gone through the motions that brought him back to feeling roughly more like a human being, waiting for Athos to complete the process in what seemed like double the time. “What do you think is the matter this time?” Athos murmured, sliding his sunglasses over his eyes.
“He sounded angry.”
“He always sounds angry.” Athos peered up into the daylight, patting himself down as he searched for a cigarette to smoke while they walked. “Did you like Bess?”
“Who?”
“Bess,” Athos reiterated. “The girl fawning over you last night at the bar? You haven’t gone on a date in months, Aramis, and for you, that’s practically death. What happened? Ever since you came back from Italy on that job, you haven’t been yourself.”
Aramis cleared his throat, trying not to recall Monterosso al Mare and what transpired on those shores that had sent him back to Paris rattled and trying to forget the mistakes he made all those years ago. “I don’t like it when women throw themselves at me,” he said, rather than give Athos even a grain of the truth. “I prefer the challenge.”
Athos raised his brow as if to agree (or disagree, given that Athos’ wordless communications were hazy at best when he was hungover).
“So is this a bad time to tell you I’ve been seeing someone casually?” Athos asked.
Aramis paused, stuck outside Notre Dame, which was a good place as any to make the sign of the cross and stare up to the heavens as though God himself would answer him if he asked a question standing here. “Can it be?” he addressed the heavens and the tourists in the bell towers. “Has Athos finally moved on from Milady of the Malcontents?”
“I wish you wouldn’t call her that.”
“And I wish she hadn’t nearly taken you down with her when she was arrested for grand larceny,” Aramis countered. “We can’t all get what we want. Who is she, then? Is it that little songbird you met in Montmartre? The English girl who got lost and managed to coerce you into playing tourist all day?”
“Or,” Athos replied slowly, as if taking back control of the conversation, “the rookie Treville hired and asked me to check in on regularly.”
“Ah, yes, her,” Aramis replied, utterly befuddled and lost. He really didn’t pay much attention to the goings-on of his fellow workers in private security and investigation and it was becoming very clear that he ought to. “Remind me of her name?”
“D’Artagnan,” Athos supplied with the smirk of a man who set that up.
“The Gascon boy?”
Athos stared at Aramis. “What? No, he’s from Reims,” Athos said, shaking his head. “Gascony? Where on earth did you get that from?” he wondered. “Come, you must still be drunker than I thought.”
Aramis might have been clouded in his thoughts, but not so clouded that he didn’t want to seize upon the fact that Athos was dating a man – young man, to be certain. “You told me you had no interest in men!” he accused.
“No, Aramis,” Athos replied. “I said I had no interest in you.”
“Same thing,” Aramis said. “So if you’re seeing someone, why did you drag me out to drink last night as though Paris was going to run out of alcohol? And don’t say it was to fix me up with someone. If I wanted, I could do that anywhere.”
Athos cleared his throat. “You’ll understand later.”
“Cryptic,” Aramis accused.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you now. I think you will soon, if Treville is sending you after whom I think he is.”
“It’s as though you’ve taken lessons in being so cryptic,” Aramis said, given that he was only digging a hole deeper into the realm of the unknown. Aramis waited for Athos to put out his cigarette, holding open the door to the Paris offices, heading straight up to Treville’s office. When they reached that uppermost floor, Athos paused in the reception area.
“Go on,” Athos said. “I’ll speak to him after.”
Aramis removed the hat from his head and made his way into the immaculate offices that Treville kept. They were always sparse and it made Aramis want to hire decorators to see if they were able to breathe any kind of life into the place or whether it was a lost cause. Fighting back his headache, Aramis stood at attention (a leftover from his days in the army, even if being a sniper had often given him time off on his own).
“You look awful,” Treville greeted.
“And a very good morning to you, sir,” Aramis replied, doing his best so smile sunnily, but his face still hurt from the hangover, so he did have to take it back a tad. “You mentioned you had a job for me.”
“Not sleeping well?” Treville continued, ignoring Aramis as if he hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “Odd dreams, maybe?”
Aramis eyed Treville suspiciously. There had been some strange dreams the last few nights, but they weren’t anything that a few period piece episodes of television couldn’t explain, especially not when combined with unresolved business from his past. “Sir,” Aramis said curtly. “Why am I here?”
Treville rounded his desk, digging out a file folder and dropping it to the glass table. Some of its contents spilled out and a black and white picture peeked out from the edges of the manila folder, giving Aramis a brief glance at an image that made his heart stop.
He would recognize that face anywhere, even if it hadn’t haunted his dreams for the last two weeks. Aramis stared at the folder, aware of where this meeting was going and feeling suddenly, absolutely, with the need to find a way to escape it.
“I thought you said when you hired me that the past would stay where it belonged,” Aramis said evenly.
“I thought the same, but I quickly came to realize the error of my ways,” Treville replied. “The past is more important to you and me than you know, Aramis. It’s why you need to go after him.”
Porthos du Vallon.
Aramis would know his face anywhere. Years ago, Porthos had been the thief that had so handily robbed Aramis of his papers, assigning him to take out a target while in London. The job had fallen through, Aramis had been heavily reprimanded and he’d been without a job until Treville had hired him for his private firm.
If only that had been the last he had seen of Porthos, but they seemed to haunt each other’s steps. They never spent more than twenty-four hours together and every time Aramis was in his presence, his head grew so cloudy and fogged up that he had no idea what it was the other man did to him. Porthos had given up the life of thievery and worked as private security for whomever would hire him.
And the last time they had crossed paths was Monterosso al Mare when Aramis had been chasing down a piece of information and had run physically into Porthos’ looming chest.
That had ended poorly, too, with Porthos leaving with someone named Charon and a pained look on his face, like whatever circumstances he was in, they weren’t pleasant.
“I want to hire him,” Treville said, tapping the picture. “He’s under the employ of someone I believe you’ve met. Petty thief turned businessman and holds Porthos under no contract.”
“So why doesn’t he leave on his own?”
“Blackmail, I’ve heard. Charon, the boss, is trading on something important to Porthos, but the time for that is done.”
Aramis could barely think around the man. It was like he retreated into some part of his mind that was fragmented and separated from the rest of him. Plus, there was that whole pesky business where Aramis wanted to sleep with Porthos so very much that his cock twitched in interest just thinking about his broad chest and his strong arms. Aramis cleared his throat. “You want me to fetch him, don’t you?”
Treville nodded, a wry smile on his face.
Aramis began to collect his things. “When should Athos and I leave?”
“No, no, not this time,” Treville said. “This is for you and you alone.”
Aramis usually had some form of backup whenever he went out to do some work for Treville. In fact, it was part and parcel of why he and Athos had grown so close. Usually Athos was the one running the electronics in the background, but it seemed odd to be sending Aramis into the field alone.
“What’s going on, Treville?” Aramis asked, his suspicions beginning to grow increasingly stronger.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is something you’ll find out for yourself once you find Porthos,” Treville said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’re in luck, too. The last intel said he was seen in town, lurking around La Defense. Bring him back here,” he said, pressing the folder into Aramis’ hands. “I’d remind you that we want him alive, but you’d never let anyone touch a hair on his head.”
Aramis paled, wondering how much Treville knew of their history, but no more information was given. He tucked the folder under his arm and gave a brisk salute before leaving the office with the feeling that he had just escaped with barely his head intact.
Outside, Athos was waiting for him.
“Well?” he prompted.
“Did you know about this? Who he’s sending me after?”
“It’s about time,” Athos murmured. “I know you haven’t been sanctioned for back-up on this one, but if you need me, give a shout,” he said. “Not that I think you’ll need the help. This is a long time coming, Aramis.”
Stuck with a new job, knowing that Porthos was apparently within the city, Aramis wondered what on earth was waiting for him out there. Everything didn’t make sense and he was tired of feeling like his life slotted just outside of place. It was time for him to start finding some answers and the first place he planned to start was not letting Porthos out of his sight – not this time.