The boat slipped silently over the River Seine. The occupiers of the boat; four men, a woman and a boy of fifteen, were travelling under the cover of darkness. The only sound they made was the quiet slosh of the oars steering the boat towards the bank. The water was black and flat, the banks under a covering of snow and no-one in the boat dared speak.
The boy huddled further into his cloak, pressed up along his father’s side. He was afraid. All the people in the boat were. He could sense it. His father pretended not to be, but he was. The boy knew. They were attempting to enter Paris, in order to find shelter at the Court of Miracles. They had to do it discreetly. Gypsies were no longer welcome in Paris. They would have to be smuggled further into the city, before attempting to find the Court.
The boy shivered against the chill of the air and in anxious anticipation as the boat bumped the bank and the man rowing the boat motioned for them all to get out.
A figure emerged from the shadows, cloaked as they were, he nodded at them and beckoned them forward, holding out his hand for their money. “For safe passage into Paris.” He said gruffly.
As the men of the group fumbled with cold fingers in their pockets, the boy noticed movement under the bridge a little further down the bank. He reached out and grasped his father’s sleeve with a gasp of fear.
His father glanced up before starting back, dragging the boy along with him, as armed men rushed out from under the bridge, followed by a man upon a horse.
“Judge Richelieu…” The man who was supposed to be taking them safely into Paris muttered in terror, and it was clear that he had been unaware of the trap that had been laid for them.
The boy looked at the man on the horse. Looked at the face that would haunt his life for years to come. Richelieu had a stern face, with unforgiving eyes, his greying hair shining slightly in the moonlight. Richelieu wore black, and his horse was the same in colour, a monstrous thick beast that the boy was also afraid of, despite being well acquainted with horses from a farming life so long ago back in Gascony.
Grey eyes regarded them coolly. “Take these gypsy vermin to the Palace of Justice.” Richelieu ordered of his men.
Before his men could even advance, the boy felt his arm being grabbed, and his father telling him “Charles, run!” And then he and his father were running for their lives.
Charles knew that they were being pursued by Richelieu when he heard the thunder of hooves behind them. His father held onto his arm, leading them through twisting streets, over fences and through small cracks hoping that the Judge would not be able to follow them on horseback.
Charles’ father did not know Paris, so Charles was uncertain of where his father hoped to hide, until his eyes fell upon the top of the Notre Dame Cathedral. Charles knew then, that they were going to claim sanctuary.
The ground was slippery from the ice and snow and still Charles and his father ran. Charles’ breath was freezing in his throat, tearing from him in harsh pants and his chest burned with exertion. His legs ached and his father was clearly not coping as well either, being older in years now, but still they ran. They did not dare stop. The streets still echoed the sound of hooves, making it impossible to tell whether they had lost Richelieu or not, and he did not know how far behind them the Judge was. He did not dare look back for fear of stumbling.
Of all the men their group had prepared to run into as they entered Paris they had never suspected the Judge himself. He was the man of nightmares among the Travelling community, and to Charles he was the epitome of the evil in the world. Charles felt his heart clench as he let himself fleetingly wonder whether their travelling companions had also managed to escape. He and his father had not known them until a few days previously, but they had all had a common hope, and a common enemy. He hoped they had gotten away.
His father pulled him up the steps of the Notre Dame and finally, with great relief, Charles and his father were at the door. His father tried to open it but it was locked. Charles saw his father flash a panicked glance at him, before his father began hammering on the door “Sanctuary! Please give us sanctuary!”
There was an ominous ‘neigh’ of a horse, far too close by, and Charles whipped around and to his horror, saw the Judge’s horse galloping towards them through the snow. Charles felt his arm being grabbed again as his father gave up on the Cathedral and pulled him in the opposite direction to the Judge, back down the steps and away.
But suddenly the Judge was upon them. Charles found himself being knocked aside by his father and Charles could do nothing but watch helplessly as in a matter of a second, the Judge kicked out with his boot. Charles watched his father fall back down the stone steps. Charles watched his father not get back up again.
“Father?” Charles’ heart was in his throat and the wind was roaring in his ears. Charles ran and skidded to his father’s side. “Father!” He cried out, when he saw the snow was red under his father’s head and his father was not breathing. “No!” He screamed, tears spilling from his eyes. “Please, no, father! Get up! Please! Get up!”
In his shock and grief he paid no heed to the horse towering over him, until its rider dismounted and he was being hauled up and away from his father by the scruff of his cloak.
“No!” Charles screeched, struggling and attempting to reach his father again. “Please! No!”
He was turned in an unforgiving hold and suddenly found himself eye to eye with the devil. “You killed him!” Charles gasped through his tears.
The Judge did not even flinch. His cold stare regarded Charles, assessing, cold and calculating. “Another gypsy child to roam the streets.” He seemed to think about it for a moment. “We cannot have that.” He looked around, not relinquishing his vice-like grip on Charles.
“Please let me go.” Charles begged.
“I will boy. I will.” The Judge said as though he had reached some kind of decision, suddenly dragging Charles forward.
Charles winced in pain at being manhandled so, his feet scuffing against the floor in his fight to stop being pulled along. He glanced up through his hair to see where the Judge was taking him, and his eyes landed upon a stone well not far from the bottom of Notre Dame's steps.
“No.” Charles whispered. With a sickening dread he knew that the only way the Judge was letting him go was down. Down down down in a deep dark well to drown. To be rid of another homeless child. To cover up his murder. “No!”
They reached the well and the Judge did not say a word, forcefully pushing Charles half over the lip of the stone ring. Charles looked down into the darkness and cried, but he did not cry for mercy. He knew he would get none from this man. Judge Richelieu lifted Charles up, trying to get him over, and Charles shot his arms out, bracing himself on the lip of the well, trying to keep his feet on the floor.
“Richelieu!” A voice cracked the silence like lightening, and suddenly, Charles was released. His feet met the floor once more and he collapsed to the snow in relief.
He looked up to find a soldier in elaborate armour standing on the steps of the Notre Dame, near to his father’s body. The man was watching the Judge and Charles in bewilderment.
“Not now, Treville.” The Judge barked out.
“What have you done, Richelieu?!” Treville demanded. “You have spilt innocent blood on the steps of Notre Dame! And about to drown a child?!”
“I am guiltless.” The Judge said. “They ran. I pursued.”
“And now you would add this boy’s blood to your guilt?”
The Judge looked down at Charles with those dead eyes. Charles ducked from the Judges’ reach and rushed across the stones again until he could collapse by his father once again, at the feet of this soldier who might just be his saviour.
“My conscience is clear.” The Judge said to the soldier.
“You can tell yourself that, and tell that to your men,” Treville argued, “But the eyes of Notre Dame have seen what you have done here tonight, and as a religious man, Judge, I can imagine that you would not wish for them to see your crimes.”
Charles glanced up to watch the monster look up at the statues and the gargoyles that lined the exterior of the Notre Dame. And he finally thought he saw some kind of emotion flicker across the Judge’s face. It looked slightly like fear.
“Keep your immortal soul intact.” Treville suggested. “Let the boy go. You have already taken his father. Show him mercy.”
Charles ran his hands through his father’s hair, damp with snow and blood, and felt that his father’s skin had grown cold. Tears dripped down Charles' cheeks still. He was unaware of the silent battle that was taking place over his head.
Finally the Judge snapped, “Fine. I will let the boy go, for now. But I will find him again. Mark my words Captain. And he will be dealt with properly.” He mounted his horse. “I will be sending soldiers back here as soon as I come across any, so I want you to dispose of these gypsies by the time they arrive. Understand, Captain?”
“Yes Sir.” The Captain forced out through clenched teeth.
Charles flinched as the horse reared and thundered out of sight, taking the monster that would haunt Charles’ dreams with him.
Charles started backwards in fright when the soldier knelt down at his side.
“It’s ok.” The man soothed, raising empty hands in a placating gesture. “It’s ok, boy. What’s your name?”
“d’Artagnan.” Charles whispered. “Charles d’Artagnan.”
“d’Artagnan.” The Captain repeated. “It is not safe for you here. You must run. Now.”
“My father…” Charles’ fingers clenched into his father’s cloak. “You can’t!”
“I must take his body to be buried.” Treville rushed urgently, “And soldiers will be here soon. Do not trust any soldier in this city who is not me. They will arrest you. Do you understand me?”
Charles nodded, his eyes clouded with tears and he flung himself forwards onto his father’s body. “What will I do?” He choked. “Where will I go?”
“Find one of your own people, they perform in the streets daily. The first one you see, tell them that you need to see Athos. Do you understand?”
“Athos?” Charles repeated.
“Yes. Remember that name. They will take you to Athos, and he will help you. You will be safe. They will take you to the Court.”
Charles looked up at the soldier with fear. “But I don’t…”
“You must go now! Leave your father with me, he is in good hands, you have my word.”
“I…” Charles’ voice wavered and broke. He reached down and slid his father’s ring from his cold finger, clutching it in his hand.
“Now!” The Captain insisted, finally giving up on patience and hauling Charles to his feet. “Run, boy.” He ordered. “d’Artagnan, run!”
And just like that, Charles became d’Artagnan, and d’Artagnan was once again running for his life. Fleeing from the Notre Dame and his father’s death, but still following the same orders that both his father and Captain Treville had given him – Run.
He found an entertainer just as the sun came up on the streets of Paris. The streets were mostly empty, but he saw a woman at the corner of a building, setting an array of items out on a blanket. “Please.” d’Artagnan gasped as he reached her. He had been running all night. He was cold, his chest ached, his feet and legs burned, and above all, his heart was broken. “Please, I need to find Athos. Will you take me to Athos?!”
The woman looked at him in surprise. “Athos?” She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, “What do you want with Athos?”
*
Athos woke up with Porthos’ arm over his waist, and Aramis’ legs tangled with his own. He stretched languidly, careful not to disturb the other men. They had slept in late, but they were not needed out on the streets that day, they had duties in the Court to attend to.
It had been surprising really, how well Athos had fitted into the Court in just over six months. He had found himself well suited to the life, and he found it more comfortable than the Noble and Solider lives that he had tried to live before. Everyone had welcomed him into the Court after all he had done for the gypsy community, and he was now just as respected as Aramis in the Court. Porthos, of course, was second in command only to Charon and the King of the Court, and Athos had found that if he had Porthos’ trust, he was guaranteed most other people’s trust too. Athos had proven himself a talented musician also, now performing on the streets of Paris, avoiding capture and living in a completely opposite world to the one he had occupied only half a year before.
Aramis had also decided that Athos looked very good in the gypsy attire and had taken great joy in experimenting in lining Athos’ eyes with kohl, similar to Aramis’ own, and dressing him in the loosest shirts and tightest trousers he could find. Porthos, on the other hand, liked to see both Athos and Aramis in lots of gold. Aramis wore bangles and rings and earrings, and Athos himself now sported a small hoop in his earlobe. It had not taken long for Athos, Porthos and Aramis to easily fall into their three-way relationship. It just seemed natural. Not that it would be deemed natural by many others, and there was an unspoken acknowledgment in the Court that yes, the three men were close, but any further relationship between the three was never mentioned (no-one commented, for example, about the three sharing a tent, far away from the other sleeping arrangements). The three, already titled the ‘Inseparables’ due to how close they were, kept their intimate relationship for privacy. And it was these mornings that Athos loved more than anything, a lazy morning with the most precious people to him in the world.
Aramis stirred beside him, his eyes squinting open. “Morning.” He said, sending Athos the most dazzling smile.
“Morning.” Athos responded, propping himself up on his elbow slightly to languidly kiss Aramis to full wakefulness. Aramis hummed happily, shifting so that Athos could drop to his back and Aramis could slide on top of him. Athos traced light fingers down Aramis’ sides, feeling the younger man shiver on top of him. When Athos’ hands found the scarred flesh on Aramis’ side, Aramis gasped and pushed his face into Athos’ neck.
“Still sensitive there?” Athos whispered.
He felt Aramis nod against him.
Athos kissed Aramis’ dark curls, feeling lips move to his collarbone in response.
“Well, this is a pleasant sight to wake to.” Porthos smiling voice had Athos and Aramis both turning their heads towards him.
“Morning, love.” Aramis offered, leaning down to kiss Porthos.
Porthos then moved to kiss Athos likewise, before collapsing back down to the blankets and pillows. “What time is it?”
“Not time to get up yet.” Aramis informed him, turning back to run his tongue over Athos’ skin.
Athos groaned. “I agree.”
Porthos laughed, his eyes crinkling, “You know we have duties this morning.”
Aramis sighed dramatically, dropping his head with a thud onto Athos’ chest. “If you insist, darling.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
Fill: Sanctuary 7a/?
Date: 2015-01-11 12:57 am (UTC)The boat slipped silently over the River Seine. The occupiers of the boat; four men, a woman and a boy of fifteen, were travelling under the cover of darkness. The only sound they made was the quiet slosh of the oars steering the boat towards the bank. The water was black and flat, the banks under a covering of snow and no-one in the boat dared speak.
The boy huddled further into his cloak, pressed up along his father’s side. He was afraid. All the people in the boat were. He could sense it. His father pretended not to be, but he was. The boy knew. They were attempting to enter Paris, in order to find shelter at the Court of Miracles. They had to do it discreetly. Gypsies were no longer welcome in Paris. They would have to be smuggled further into the city, before attempting to find the Court.
The boy shivered against the chill of the air and in anxious anticipation as the boat bumped the bank and the man rowing the boat motioned for them all to get out.
A figure emerged from the shadows, cloaked as they were, he nodded at them and beckoned them forward, holding out his hand for their money. “For safe passage into Paris.” He said gruffly.
As the men of the group fumbled with cold fingers in their pockets, the boy noticed movement under the bridge a little further down the bank. He reached out and grasped his father’s sleeve with a gasp of fear.
His father glanced up before starting back, dragging the boy along with him, as armed men rushed out from under the bridge, followed by a man upon a horse.
“Judge Richelieu…” The man who was supposed to be taking them safely into Paris muttered in terror, and it was clear that he had been unaware of the trap that had been laid for them.
The boy looked at the man on the horse. Looked at the face that would haunt his life for years to come. Richelieu had a stern face, with unforgiving eyes, his greying hair shining slightly in the moonlight. Richelieu wore black, and his horse was the same in colour, a monstrous thick beast that the boy was also afraid of, despite being well acquainted with horses from a farming life so long ago back in Gascony.
Grey eyes regarded them coolly. “Take these gypsy vermin to the Palace of Justice.” Richelieu ordered of his men.
Before his men could even advance, the boy felt his arm being grabbed, and his father telling him “Charles, run!” And then he and his father were running for their lives.
Charles knew that they were being pursued by Richelieu when he heard the thunder of hooves behind them. His father held onto his arm, leading them through twisting streets, over fences and through small cracks hoping that the Judge would not be able to follow them on horseback.
Charles’ father did not know Paris, so Charles was uncertain of where his father hoped to hide, until his eyes fell upon the top of the Notre Dame Cathedral. Charles knew then, that they were going to claim sanctuary.
The ground was slippery from the ice and snow and still Charles and his father ran. Charles’ breath was freezing in his throat, tearing from him in harsh pants and his chest burned with exertion. His legs ached and his father was clearly not coping as well either, being older in years now, but still they ran. They did not dare stop. The streets still echoed the sound of hooves, making it impossible to tell whether they had lost Richelieu or not, and he did not know how far behind them the Judge was. He did not dare look back for fear of stumbling.
Of all the men their group had prepared to run into as they entered Paris they had never suspected the Judge himself. He was the man of nightmares among the Travelling community, and to Charles he was the epitome of the evil in the world. Charles felt his heart clench as he let himself fleetingly wonder whether their travelling companions had also managed to escape. He and his father had not known them until a few days previously, but they had all had a common hope, and a common enemy. He hoped they had gotten away.
His father pulled him up the steps of the Notre Dame and finally, with great relief, Charles and his father were at the door. His father tried to open it but it was locked. Charles saw his father flash a panicked glance at him, before his father began hammering on the door “Sanctuary! Please give us sanctuary!”
There was an ominous ‘neigh’ of a horse, far too close by, and Charles whipped around and to his horror, saw the Judge’s horse galloping towards them through the snow. Charles felt his arm being grabbed again as his father gave up on the Cathedral and pulled him in the opposite direction to the Judge, back down the steps and away.
But suddenly the Judge was upon them. Charles found himself being knocked aside by his father and Charles could do nothing but watch helplessly as in a matter of a second, the Judge kicked out with his boot. Charles watched his father fall back down the stone steps. Charles watched his father not get back up again.
“Father?” Charles’ heart was in his throat and the wind was roaring in his ears. Charles ran and skidded to his father’s side. “Father!” He cried out, when he saw the snow was red under his father’s head and his father was not breathing. “No!” He screamed, tears spilling from his eyes. “Please, no, father! Get up! Please! Get up!”
In his shock and grief he paid no heed to the horse towering over him, until its rider dismounted and he was being hauled up and away from his father by the scruff of his cloak.
“No!” Charles screeched, struggling and attempting to reach his father again. “Please! No!”
He was turned in an unforgiving hold and suddenly found himself eye to eye with the devil. “You killed him!” Charles gasped through his tears.
The Judge did not even flinch. His cold stare regarded Charles, assessing, cold and calculating. “Another gypsy child to roam the streets.” He seemed to think about it for a moment. “We cannot have that.” He looked around, not relinquishing his vice-like grip on Charles.
“Please let me go.” Charles begged.
“I will boy. I will.” The Judge said as though he had reached some kind of decision, suddenly dragging Charles forward.
Charles winced in pain at being manhandled so, his feet scuffing against the floor in his fight to stop being pulled along. He glanced up through his hair to see where the Judge was taking him, and his eyes landed upon a stone well not far from the bottom of Notre Dame's steps.
“No.” Charles whispered. With a sickening dread he knew that the only way the Judge was letting him go was down. Down down down in a deep dark well to drown. To be rid of another homeless child. To cover up his murder. “No!”
They reached the well and the Judge did not say a word, forcefully pushing Charles half over the lip of the stone ring. Charles looked down into the darkness and cried, but he did not cry for mercy. He knew he would get none from this man. Judge Richelieu lifted Charles up, trying to get him over, and Charles shot his arms out, bracing himself on the lip of the well, trying to keep his feet on the floor.
“Richelieu!” A voice cracked the silence like lightening, and suddenly, Charles was released. His feet met the floor once more and he collapsed to the snow in relief.
He looked up to find a soldier in elaborate armour standing on the steps of the Notre Dame, near to his father’s body. The man was watching the Judge and Charles in bewilderment.
“Not now, Treville.” The Judge barked out.
“What have you done, Richelieu?!” Treville demanded. “You have spilt innocent blood on the steps of Notre Dame! And about to drown a child?!”
“I am guiltless.” The Judge said. “They ran. I pursued.”
“And now you would add this boy’s blood to your guilt?”
The Judge looked down at Charles with those dead eyes. Charles ducked from the Judges’ reach and rushed across the stones again until he could collapse by his father once again, at the feet of this soldier who might just be his saviour.
“My conscience is clear.” The Judge said to the soldier.
“You can tell yourself that, and tell that to your men,” Treville argued, “But the eyes of Notre Dame have seen what you have done here tonight, and as a religious man, Judge, I can imagine that you would not wish for them to see your crimes.”
Charles glanced up to watch the monster look up at the statues and the gargoyles that lined the exterior of the Notre Dame. And he finally thought he saw some kind of emotion flicker across the Judge’s face. It looked slightly like fear.
“Keep your immortal soul intact.” Treville suggested. “Let the boy go. You have already taken his father. Show him mercy.”
Charles ran his hands through his father’s hair, damp with snow and blood, and felt that his father’s skin had grown cold. Tears dripped down Charles' cheeks still. He was unaware of the silent battle that was taking place over his head.
Finally the Judge snapped, “Fine. I will let the boy go, for now. But I will find him again. Mark my words Captain. And he will be dealt with properly.” He mounted his horse. “I will be sending soldiers back here as soon as I come across any, so I want you to dispose of these gypsies by the time they arrive. Understand, Captain?”
“Yes Sir.” The Captain forced out through clenched teeth.
Charles flinched as the horse reared and thundered out of sight, taking the monster that would haunt Charles’ dreams with him.
Charles started backwards in fright when the soldier knelt down at his side.
“It’s ok.” The man soothed, raising empty hands in a placating gesture. “It’s ok, boy. What’s your name?”
“d’Artagnan.” Charles whispered. “Charles d’Artagnan.”
“d’Artagnan.” The Captain repeated. “It is not safe for you here. You must run. Now.”
“My father…” Charles’ fingers clenched into his father’s cloak. “You can’t!”
“I must take his body to be buried.” Treville rushed urgently, “And soldiers will be here soon. Do not trust any soldier in this city who is not me. They will arrest you. Do you understand me?”
Charles nodded, his eyes clouded with tears and he flung himself forwards onto his father’s body. “What will I do?” He choked. “Where will I go?”
“Find one of your own people, they perform in the streets daily. The first one you see, tell them that you need to see Athos. Do you understand?”
“Athos?” Charles repeated.
“Yes. Remember that name. They will take you to Athos, and he will help you. You will be safe. They will take you to the Court.”
Charles looked up at the soldier with fear. “But I don’t…”
“You must go now! Leave your father with me, he is in good hands, you have my word.”
“I…” Charles’ voice wavered and broke. He reached down and slid his father’s ring from his cold finger, clutching it in his hand.
“Now!” The Captain insisted, finally giving up on patience and hauling Charles to his feet. “Run, boy.” He ordered. “d’Artagnan, run!”
And just like that, Charles became d’Artagnan, and d’Artagnan was once again running for his life. Fleeing from the Notre Dame and his father’s death, but still following the same orders that both his father and Captain Treville had given him – Run.
He found an entertainer just as the sun came up on the streets of Paris. The streets were mostly empty, but he saw a woman at the corner of a building, setting an array of items out on a blanket. “Please.” d’Artagnan gasped as he reached her. He had been running all night. He was cold, his chest ached, his feet and legs burned, and above all, his heart was broken. “Please, I need to find Athos. Will you take me to Athos?!”
The woman looked at him in surprise. “Athos?” She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, “What do you want with Athos?”
*
Athos woke up with Porthos’ arm over his waist, and Aramis’ legs tangled with his own. He stretched languidly, careful not to disturb the other men. They had slept in late, but they were not needed out on the streets that day, they had duties in the Court to attend to.
It had been surprising really, how well Athos had fitted into the Court in just over six months. He had found himself well suited to the life, and he found it more comfortable than the Noble and Solider lives that he had tried to live before.
Everyone had welcomed him into the Court after all he had done for the gypsy community, and he was now just as respected as Aramis in the Court. Porthos, of course, was second in command only to Charon and the King of the Court, and Athos had found that if he had Porthos’ trust, he was guaranteed most other people’s trust too. Athos had proven himself a talented musician also, now performing on the streets of Paris, avoiding capture and living in a completely opposite world to the one he had occupied only half a year before.
Aramis had also decided that Athos looked very good in the gypsy attire and had taken great joy in experimenting in lining Athos’ eyes with kohl, similar to Aramis’ own, and dressing him in the loosest shirts and tightest trousers he could find. Porthos, on the other hand, liked to see both Athos and Aramis in lots of gold. Aramis wore bangles and rings and earrings, and Athos himself now sported a small hoop in his earlobe. It had not taken long for Athos, Porthos and Aramis to easily fall into their three-way relationship. It just seemed natural. Not that it would be deemed natural by many others, and there was an unspoken acknowledgment in the Court that yes, the three men were close, but any further relationship between the three was never mentioned (no-one commented, for example, about the three sharing a tent, far away from the other sleeping arrangements). The three, already titled the ‘Inseparables’ due to how close they were, kept their intimate relationship for privacy. And it was these mornings that Athos loved more than anything, a lazy morning with the most precious people to him in the world.
Aramis stirred beside him, his eyes squinting open. “Morning.” He said, sending Athos the most dazzling smile.
“Morning.” Athos responded, propping himself up on his elbow slightly to languidly kiss Aramis to full wakefulness. Aramis hummed happily, shifting so that Athos could drop to his back and Aramis could slide on top of him. Athos traced light fingers down Aramis’ sides, feeling the younger man shiver on top of him. When Athos’ hands found the scarred flesh on Aramis’ side, Aramis gasped and pushed his face into Athos’ neck.
“Still sensitive there?” Athos whispered.
He felt Aramis nod against him.
Athos kissed Aramis’ dark curls, feeling lips move to his collarbone in response.
“Well, this is a pleasant sight to wake to.” Porthos smiling voice had Athos and Aramis both turning their heads towards him.
“Morning, love.” Aramis offered, leaning down to kiss Porthos.
Porthos then moved to kiss Athos likewise, before collapsing back down to the blankets and pillows. “What time is it?”
“Not time to get up yet.” Aramis informed him, turning back to run his tongue over Athos’ skin.
Athos groaned. “I agree.”
Porthos laughed, his eyes crinkling, “You know we have duties this morning.”
Aramis sighed dramatically, dropping his head with a thud onto Athos’ chest. “If you insist, darling.”