A modern au Musketeers fic by lizcavil

Ao3 | fanfic.net

      He’s hardly more than a kid, Porthos decides, can’t be more than twenty years old.      He starts the car and turns the heat as high as possible before aiming every air vent he can reach at the young man beside him. That’s when he notices his passenger’s eyes are unfocused even in the brief flashes of lamplight illuminating the car’s interior when Porthos gets them headed for the nearest river crossing. He doesn’t know where the kid lives nor where he needs to go in the aftermath of whatever it is that happened to him.      “Aramis, you gotta help me out here.” He lightly places his right hand on the young man’s left wrist in the hope of keeping him awake and aware, but Porthos quickly withdraws when the contact elicits a hiss and a flinch from his passenger. “North or west side, kid?”      “ ‘m not a kid,” Aramis grumbles. “ ‘m twen’y three.”      Porthos lets the issue go, his attention drawn by the SUV traveling parallel to them on the next street over to his left. Glancing to his right, he sees Aramis slouched in the passenger seat, although his posture remains defensive despite the exhaustion surrounding him like a cloud.      “Why were you on this side of town?” From the corner of his eye he continues to track their shadowy stalker, careful to remain facing forward to keep from alerting the other vehicle of both his knowledge of its presence as well as the existence of his passenger.      “Business.”      “Business,” Porthos echoes with minimal mouth movement. “You don’t seem the east-side business type.”      “ ’s for a friend.”      “Your friend happen to be a detective? Maybe the Police Commissioner? These guys normally don’t tail low-end buyers, so I’m guessing you’re an informant or a narc. Police station on the north or west side?”      Aramis’s eyes fly open, and his attempt to turn in his seat is stopped by Porthos’s arm across his chest and pinning him against the seat.      “If they haven’t made a move yet, I’m guessing they’re not sure you’re in here, so stay back and down. Now are you a cop or aren’t you?”      “I am.”

the Christmas fics have begun! XD Here’s my first (ever and of the year), “Secret Santa” (AO3 FF.net) written for @riversidewren, and here’s a tease:

               “What are you going to get him?” Porthos inquires over Athos’ shoulder.

               “A chastity device,” Athos deadpans, and Porthos fully steps into Athos’ office and shuts the door so he doesn’t have to try quite so hard to contain his laughter.

               “I don’t think Aramis would actually use it.” Porthos drops into the chair in front of Athos desk and chuckles once more at the thought. “I’ll trade ya.”

               “Why?” Instantly Athos is prepared for a trap. Porthos never breaks the ‘no trading names’ rule, mainly because he’s outrageously good at giving the perfect gift. Porthos’ offer has turned this year’s Secret Santa into a potential nightmare. Is he offering out of sudden mercy on Athos? Has he been involved in name-trading all these years and only now involving Athos? Or is that Porthos doesn’t want the name he pulled? “Who’s your person?”

               “de Winter.”

               With them seated on around his desk, the shades drawn, and the door shut, it feels so very much like a scene from a crime film when Porthos drops the folded piece of paper onto Athos’ desk, the name scrawled in black ink of doom. Athos stares for several seconds transfixed by the gentle, sweeping handwriting forming those eight letters. He could ponder the irony all day, but Porthos sits waiting for his reply.

               “No. Absolutely not. She’s all yours.”

               A knock at the door draws Athos’ mind away from de Winter and the scrap of paper Porthos casually returns to his pocket. The door opens to reveal Aramis who slips into the office as though he’s hiding.

Athos finds the bed Aramis has been occupying at the garrison slept in, yet empty. This taken together with the door hanging ajar has Athos concerned. Add to that the presence of Aramis' standard wardrobe right down to the man's favorite pair of socks. Athos is now beyond concern because Aramis has either decided that going about in one's undergarments is the latest trend in fashion or he left the garrison in something other than his right mind.

Throwing any potentially necessary garment as well as a blanket into one of Aramis' packs, Athos, with every bit of comte-like calmness he can muster, heads directly for Tréville’s office, inquires about the missing man, and descends the stairs to the yard below with growing unease.

"Gone? What do you mean gone?" d'Artagnan asks, the crust of bread in his hand immediately forgotten.

"He didn't leave a note or anything?" Porthos is already standing, hat on his head, ready to leave in search of Aramis.

"He didn't bother dressing. I doubt he thought to leave a note."

Athos' words halt Porthos for only a moment before he's headed out the gate with increased determination.

"His horse is here," calls Tréville while exiting the stables.

"Should someone stay here in case he turns up?"

Three sets of eyes land on d'Artagnan before Tréville decides "d'Artagnan, you stay here. Try not to destroy the city while I'm gone."

And here’s an excerpt:

Athos has been in this damn store for a whole three minutes and he's prepared to kill any and every living thing that comes within a three foot radius. Thus far Porthos has been the only creature of reason beside Athos himself while d'Artagnan and Aramis started their bickering over what party foods to get long before they climbed into the car. What began as a simple and innocent desire to celebrate Tréville’s twentieth year as their captain was quickly turning into a murder plot.

"Cheetos, d'Artagnan? This is not a five year old's birthday party. This is a mature office party celebrating twenty years of excellence! It is our responsibility as his friends and coworkers to honor him with snacks worthy of his office. Anything less would be disrespectful. And distasteful!"

D'Artagnan pouts and strays not an inch from the variety of Cheetos.

"D'Herblay 2016! Ladies and gents, your next president!" Calls Porthos for half the grocery store to hear.

“Why don't you try for public office, Aramis?" d’Artagnan shifts away from his beloved snack food like a moth drawn to a flame of interest.

If this is the first post you’ve seen about this fic, perhaps this will convince you to go read it:

“There are old Norse tales of men who fight with a wild madness and fury. They call them berserkers.”

D’Artagnan tore his gaze from the marksman to look at Athos, and he wondered how Athos could appear so calm, head leaned back against the tree’s trunk with his eyes closed and breathing steady, when he knew what was about to transpire.

“Although there are those who believe mushrooms were involved in those instances.” Athos opened his eyes and turned to meet the younger man’s stare. “I used to think they were nothing more than legend…” He cast a glance to where Grim’s henchmen grew ever twitchier. “Then I met those two.”

Aramis waited for one of them to make a move, allowed their fear to drive them to carelessness. His heart beat with wild anticipation and his breath came faster than normal. As he prowled back and forth before them he briefly considered how much more addictive that protective rush was when compared to his usual lust for danger. He felt his hold on his mind slipping as the need to preserve his brotherhood swept him away like waves out to sea, but he held out for as long as possible. He knew what happened when he got like this, rather he’d been told what happened. He never remembered it, and perhaps that’s why it was so addictive: he wasn’t kept in check by the haunting memories of his actions.

The plan. The plan. Remember the plan. He couldn’t let the Grim die, or all of this would be for nothing. He couldn’t let Porthos’ pain be for nothing. He looked at his brother; he bled into the dirt not two feet from where Aramis stood. If there had been any shred of hope that Aramis could somehow regain control, it was crushed in that moment. No one hurt Porthos and got away with it. No one.

When at last one of the men stepped forward, Aramis' vision reddened and he lost control.