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Chapter Text

Fighting at night was always more problematic than fighting in daylight; it was all too easy to lose track of oneself or, worse, one's enemies. Ambushes at night were even worse because it was nearly impossible to know how many people were attacking. So they were lucky, really, to come out of the latest nighttime skirmish with only a gash opened up on Porthos' leg, but it was still an injury that needed to be seen to.

Aramis was the one who suggested they stop at a small inn. Porthos seemed more embarrassed than anything and protested loudly, but Athos agreed with Aramis so the tall Musketeer didn't really have much of a say in the matter. Athos looped an arm around Porthos' shoulder and helped him limp into the poorly-lit room as Aramis walked ahead of them, striding over to the innkeeper with his usual confidence.

"I am sorry to inconvenience you at such an ungodly hour, but our comrade is wounded and we require somewhere to tend him," he said. The innkeeper squinted blearily at Aramis, gaze shifting to take in Athos and Porthos stumbling into the room. He sighed.

"You can use a table in the back room there," he said. Aramis smiled.

"Thank you," he said.

"You'll be paying extra for the bloodstains," the man added. Aramis' smile didn't waver but took on a steely undertone.

"Of course," he said. "And you'll be providing hot water and candles for us to use. How considerate of you."

The innkeeper scowled and nodded.

"This way, then," he said, and led them briskly toward a dimly lit backroom. "Try not to dirty it up too badly."

"I shall do my best," Aramis said, offering an exaggerated bow. The innkeeper sighed heavily and wandered off again, muttering under his breath. Aramis turned to Porthos and grinned broadly, clapping his hands together. "Now then," he said. "We can begin."

Porthos grimaced. "It's just a scratch Aramis, no need to insist-"

"This is not just a scratch, Porthos, now sit down and let me stitch it."

Porthos sat heavily, still clutching protectively at his bleeding leg.

"Porthos. In order for Aramis to stitch it, he must be able to see it," Athos said evenly, one eyebrow raised.

Porthos scowled, face pale but determined. "I don't care for the idea of him sewing me up," he said.

Aramis looked offended.

"Are you implying that you think me incapable of stitching your wound?" he asked, frowning at the accusation.

"Never said that," Porthos pouted. "Just don't like the stitching is all." He looked appraisingly at Aramis and shrugged. "And to be honest, perhaps I am somewhat…doubtful of your abilities," he finished.

"Ah, Porthos, I am wounded," Aramis sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to his heart. "But you have yet to see my skills, so I will forgive you. And now that that is settled, let's see to your leg, shall we?"

Porthos sighed and allowed Athos and Aramis to pull him onto the table the innkeeper had indicated. He swallowed nervously as the innkeeper came back in with a pot of hot water.

"Thank you," Aramis said, accepting the water with an easy smile.

"And might I see your selection of wine?" Athos asked as he followed the man out of the room.

"No unsavory thoughts now," Aramis whispered with a lecherous grin as he tore Porthos' pant leg open to expose the long wound on his thigh.

Porthos grit his teeth and groaned, bringing a hand up to wipe at his forehead.

"Drink," Athos said, reentering the room and pressing a glass of wine to Porthos' hand.

"Gladly," Porthos answered, throwing back the drink. He hissed as Aramis pressed gingerly around the wound.

"Aramis! It hurts enough without you poking about like-"

"It could have been worse," Aramis cut him off. "But it's bad enough. I'll have to clean it. Athos?"

Porthos squirmed as Athos' hands rested on his shoulders, pinning him to the table. Aramis uncorked a bottle and, casting an apologetic look towards Porthos, dumped its contents on his wound. Porthos let out a roar and came off the table, despite Athos' grip.

"Porthos!"

"Athos, you've got to-"

And right about that time, a fist slammed into the side of Porthos' head and everything went black.

xxxx

"Well. Coming 'round, are you?"

Porthos grunted and cracked his eyes open. He had been moved from the table and was now lying in a rather hard bed. Aramis was sitting in a chair next to it with his feet propped up next to Porthos' legs, his arms behind his head.

"Happened?" Porthos managed to ask.

"You, my friend, are an unruly patient."

Porthos brought a hand up to his head and groaned.

"So you hit me?"

"You're much more agreeable when unconscious," Athos said, coming into the room with a full bottle of wine and three glasses.

"Here," he said, handing a glass to each of them and liberally pouring the alcohol. "I think we've earned a drink."

Aramis accepted his glass with a smile. "When you can see straight again, you must look at my handiwork. Neatest stitches you'll ever have." Aramis looked at Porthos' leg, which was now bandaged, and nodded to himself, looking satisfied.

Porthos drank his wine and nodded in thanks to Athos, then looked to Aramis.

"Thank you. I should never have doubted you," he said.

"No. You shouldn't have. But all is well now, so long as you don't reopen your wound and ruin my hard work."

"I won't," Porthos said, sighing as the pull of the wine and the blood loss and the headache led him toward sleep.

"Good. Rest up. We've a long journey in the morning, if you're well enough," Athos said.

"Mmm," Porthos murmured, already falling asleep.

The last thing he heard was Aramis' laugh ringing out.

"Seems your wine has done the trick, Athos!"

xxxx

When he woke up later and was finally able to see straight again, Porthos checked to make sure that Aramis was sleeping, then peeked beneath the bandage.

"Damn," he muttered. "Like a right seamstress, he is."

"Heard that," Aramis said without opening an eye. "I do believe I told you as much."

"Damn," Porthos muttered again with a sigh. He'd never hear the end of this one.

Aramis just grinned.

Chapter Text

A/N: I don't own these characters. Obviously. Also, thanks for the reviews/follows/favorites. Glad to see so many fellow Musketeer lovers! Enjoy chapter 2.

xxxx

Constance had just finished clearing the table after lunch when Porthos and d'Artagnan stumbled through the doorway. The right side of d'Artagnan's face was covered with blood, and his head was drooping. Porthos had d'Artagnan's arm thrown over his shoulder and was all but carrying him into the room.

Constance's eyes widened. "What- what happened?" She gasped. Porthos deposited d'Artagnan heavily into a chair then stood, cracking his back. Constance dropped to her knees before the younger musketeer and inspected his face. There was a large cut across his cheek, and blood streamed from a gash at his hairline.

"Musketeer business," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand and a meaningful look.

Which meant they would be telling Constance no more about what had transpired.

"He's barely conscious," Constance murmured. "d'Artagnan? Can you hear me?"

d'Artagnan muttered something unintelligible and Constance's chest tightened.

"Should we send for a physician?" She asked.

"Athos has gone to fetch Aramis," Porthos answered. Constance frowned.

"Aramis? But he needs a real physician, a proper one," she said.

"Have you ever seen Aramis clean someone up?" Porthos demanded.

"Well- no, I haven't-"

"Then I would wait to cast judgment if I were you," he finished. Constance raised her eyebrows in surprise at Porthos' quick defense of Aramis and decided to stop protesting.

D'Artagnan chose that moment to make a gagging sound and Constance only just managed to avoid the stream of vomit that followed. She grimaced and Porthos sighed.

"Concussed, he is. Best we get him somewhere he can lay down."

"Of course, we can take him to his room," Constance said. "Though my husband won't be pleased at the mess."

Porthos looked at her. "We can take him somewhere else if this will be an inconvenience," he said seriously.

"Oh, nonsense! Come on, bring him up," Constance said, bustling towards d'Artagnan's room. "Can you manage him up the stairs?"

Porthos rolled his eyes and didn't bother answering as they started up the stairs, d'Artagnan occasionally saying something nonsensical.

They had just gotten him settled on the bed when Aramis and Athos appeared in the doorway. Aramis winced when he saw d'Artagnan's face.

"Pommel?" He asked as he sat on the bed.

"Musket," Athos answered. "Twice."

"Yes," Aramis said inspecting the wounds, "I can see one in the hairline and one on his cheekbone. It's already begun to swell. Has he come around at all?"

"Yes," Constance said, "but he isn't making any sense. He vomited once, too."

"Concussed then," Aramis said.

"That's what I said," Porthos said, beaming. Athos rolled his eyes.

"He thinks he's brilliant now," he said sideways to Constance. Constance smiled lightly then turned back to d'Artagnan.

"Is he going to be alright?" She asked. Aramis sighed.

"It's hard to gauge wounds like this one," he said. "We'll have to watch him closely the next few days. Watch for fitting, make sure he doesn't inhale his vomit. With any luck it isn't too bad and he'll come out of it soon, but I don't know for certain." Constance's eyes widened and she felt her stomach drop.

Aramis must have noticed, for he hastily added, "But knowing d'Artagnan and the hardness of his head, I am confident all will be fine."

"I've never met a more stubborn soul," Athos agreed. Constance managed a smile, feeling somewhat –though, not entirely- reassured.

"I don't like head wounds," Porthos grumbled. "Too much waiting for my taste."

"Well in the meantime, I'd like to stitch these wounds. After that he'll need some tending."

"I'll do it," Constance said quickly. Aramis grinned.

"I would have been surprised had you not offered, Madame," he said. He pulled a leather pouch from his jacket and dug around before holding up a curved needle. "You have thread?"

"Yes. I'll get it, and some water," Constance said quickly. She hurried downstairs and procured the needed items, sighing at the puddle of vomit that was still on the floor and that now smelled rather ripe, than went back to d'Artagnan's room.

"Here," she said, thrusting the items at Aramis. The musketeers had taken off d'Artagnan's leather coat and propped his feet up on a few pillows, and he seemed slightly more lucid than he had, blinking blearily and raising a hand to his head.

"Leave it," Athos said, easing d'Artagnan's hand to his side.

"Hurts," d'Artagnan said.

"Getting hit in the head will do that," Athos answered. "Just relax, let Aramis stitch you up. You'll be right in no time."

Aramis threaded the needle, then looked to Constance. "Would you clean his face? It will be easier to stitch."

Constance nodded and dipped a rag in the water she'd brought, and dabbed at d'Artagnan's face. D'Artagnan frowned and peered at her, clearly confused.

"Constance?" He murmured.

"Ssh," Constance said quietly. "Just be calm."

"Mmm," d'Artagnan hummed, eyes closing.

"Ready to be sewn up?" Aramis asked, sitting next to d'Artagnan. He helped ease the injured man onto his side so that the wound was facing upward, then looked appraisingly at the wounds. He turned to Porthos. "If he reacts, you'll have to knock him out."

"I doubt d'Artagnan is as weak-stomached as Porthos," Athos said, grinning as Porthos complained loudly at the statement. "He won't need it."

Aramis shook his head and went to work on the wound in d'Artagnan's hairline, sewing with neat, precise stitches that left Constance in awe. D'Artagnan groaned and twitched slightly, then settled easily under Aramis' touch. Athos shot a smirk at Porthos, who colored slightly.

"Where did you learn to stitch like that?" Constance asked as she watched Aramis work.

Aramis answered without looking up. "I've had lots of practice," he said simply.

Constance shuddered at the thought of the situations the musketeers must have encountered, even as she felt a slight twinge of jealousy at the thought of being part of such excitement.

D'Artagnan stirred and cracked his eyes open.

"Ar'mis?" He slurred. Aramis deftly tied off the stitches and cut the thread before looking down at d'Artagnan.

"Got yourself knocked in the head again, I see," He said, raising an eyebrow. D'Artagnan scrunched his nose then hissed in pain.

"Yeah," he said finally.

"How eloquent," Athos said.

"You can hardly blame him," Constance said, glaring at Athos. "He's had his head half-bashed in!"

"He meant nothing by it," Aramis commented. "That's just how Athos shows affection."

D'Artagnan followed their exchange with a confused look, then sighed heavily.

"Jus' wanna sleep," he said.

Aramis nodded. "Just sleep," he said. "We'll wake you later."

Constance took the opportunity to ease d'Artagnan onto his back.

"Ssh," she said quietly. "Sleep now."

D'Artagnan smiled groggily and let his eyes drift shut.

"I'll watch him," Constance said, dabbing at the dried blood on his face.

"We'll just be at the tavern, then," Porthos said. "If you need anything, come get us."

Aramis clapped a hand on her shoulder as he left, offering her a tired smile.

"He'll be alright," he said quietly, then walked out of the room.

Constance turned back to d'Artagnan and stroked his hair back from his face.

He would be alright.

xxxx

"D' you think it'll scar?" D'Artagnan asked two days later, gingerly feeling at the row of stitches on his cheek.

"Don't you worry," Porthos said with a wink. "The ladies like scars."

Aramis leaned in. "I've done just fine without," he said, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

Athos gave Aramis and Porthos both a flat look, then turned back to d'Artagnan. "Scar or no, we need to go. Treville beckons."

D'Artagnan smiled and followed them out the door.

Chapter Text

It was the middle of the night and, for once, Aramis was in his own bed sleeping soundly. He was exhausted after a long and trying day that involved not one, but two assassination attempts complete with a musket ball that had come this close to splattering his brain matter across the cobblestones. Aramis figured if anyone deserved a nice long rest, it was him.

Which was why he was so startled, and upset, when he was awoken by the sound of pebbles striking his window.

His eyes snapped open and he groaned, swinging his legs out of the bed and cursing under his breath at whoever was responsible for waking him. He stumbled to the window and flung it open, peering down into the dimly lit alley.

"Who's there?" He asked grumpily. If this wasn't someone or something really important, he was going to upend his chamber bucket on whoever was standing below him.

"Athos," came the reply. Aramis frowned.

"Athos? What are you doing here?"

"I seem to need your help," Athos answered. Aramis could see him blinking owlishly. "Are you going to invite me in?"

Aramis huffed under his breath. "Fine. I'll be down in a moment."

xxxx

"How did you do this?" Aramis asked as he gently cleaned up the cuts that were scattered on Athos' palm and up his arms. He hadn't even started on the gash opening the sole of his friend's foot yet.

Athos actually looked embarrassed, a slight flush rising on his cheeks as he looked away from Aramis. "I was drinking," he said. "Perhaps I had more than I should have. I was told to leave."

"And you didn't," Aramis supplied, frowning as he started in on the foot. Athos winced.

"Not straight away, no," he said. "So they threw me out."

"Literally threw you?"

"Yes."

Aramis whistled. "And you what, fell on glass?"

"Was still holding my bottle of wine," Athos confirmed. "I fell right on top of it, then stepped on it when I stood up. Bloody stupid."

"Mmm," Aramis hummed, sighing. "At least now you won't be able to wear those boots anymore. I've been telling you for ages that you need a new pair."

"Those boots are the most comfortable pair I own," Athos said.

"Perhaps," Aramis said. "But that is because you have had them for years. They're an abomination to behold."

Athos shook his head and Aramis could see that he was trying not to smile. He clapped a hand on Athos' shoulder. "There are two cuts on your arms that might need a stitch or two. The one on your foot will need more. I doubt you'll be able to walk on it for a few days."

Athos groaned and rubbed a hand across his forehead. Aramis thread his needle and gently took Athos' arm. Athos hissed quietly and Aramis clicked his tongue.

"I am sorry. For imposing upon you," Athos said. Aramis shook his head.

"No need to apologize," he said, working deftly. "At least, not for that."

Athos blinked. "For what, then?"

"You've not been the same since Bonnair." Aramis said, neatly snipping the thread and starting on Athos' other arm and not really answering the question.

"Did d'Artagnan tell you?" Athos asked quietly.

"No," Aramis said, "but perhaps you are not as subtle as you think. Your drinking of late has been excessive, even for you, and whatever memories were stirred up by your family's estate did not seem to be pleasant ones."

"No," Athos murmured. "They weren't."

Aramis moved down to Athos' foot, glancing up at his friend from beneath his eyebrows. "This will hurt," he said.

Athos nodded and clenched his teeth as Aramis began the stitching, foot jerking up reflexively. Aramis swore lightly and held his foot down, then resumed sewing.

"You can talk to me. Or Porthos. If you need to," Aramis said without making eye contact. "Of course, sometimes it is better not to talk, I understand that, but should you want to, we will listen."

There was an awkward silence after that, and Athos could see that Aramis' cheeks were red.

"Thank you," he said finally. "I am grateful to know that you are willing to help me. But I'm afraid that the things that trouble me are…rather heavy. Shameful, even."

Aramis tied off the last stitch in Athos' foot and looked the other man square in the eye.

"We all have heavy pasts, Athos, and we will think no less of you for yours," he said.

Athos leant back, sighing in relief as Aramis smeared ointment on his wounds and bandaged them.

"Thank you," he said. "For all of it. Tonight is not the time, perhaps, to speak of what troubles me, but I will. When I've had something to drink without needing stitches."

Aramis grinned, wiping his hands.

"A good idea," he said. "Are you going to stay here for the night? Or would you like me to help you home?"

Athos looked conflicted. And exhausted. His eyelids were drooping as the events of the evening caught up to him.

"Here, then," Aramis said with a smile. "I can sleep on the floor."

"No," Athos said, his sense of chivalry overcoming his bleariness. He struggled to sit up. "No-"

"Peace, Athos, I have slept on floors before. Besides, I am tired enough that I could probably sleep anywhere. Now lie down and go to sleep before I change my mind and throw you out the window."

Athos blinked then complied, lying down docilely.

"Good," Aramis said, then stretched out on the floor next to the bed. "And Athos? If you need anything tonight? Don't wake me."

Athos snorted in amusement before they both drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

The first thing Treville became aware of was that his head felt thick and heavy and his side ached terribly. He cracked his eyes open then shut them again, wincing at the pain that lanced through his head. He took a few deep breaths and steeled himself, then pried his eyes open a second time, blinking rapidly to clear the dust and grime away.

Once his vision cleared, Treville could start to make out his surroundings. It was dark and the air was thick with dust. There was faint light that Treville couldn't see the source of, and there was debris and rubble all around him. He groaned and rested his head against what felt like a beam of some sort.

There'd been another group of radicals with another stupid plot to destroy a Parisian landmark in the flashiest way possible, this time one of Paris's premier opera houses. And this time, Treville had been too slow getting there. They'd been able to evacuate most people from the building before it exploded, but he hadn't made it and he didn't know if all of his men had made it.

His men. The thought of any of them being trapped down here made his stomach churn.

Any hope that he was alone was soon dashed when he heard a faint coughing from somewhere to his right.

"Hello?" He called. "Who's there?"

The coughing rose to a crescendo before fading into a groan that had Treville more than a little concerned. Then a weak voice said "Cap-Captain?"

"Aramis," Treville whispered, his heart dropping. Aramis' voice had sounded weak and in pain.

"Are you injured, sir?" Aramis asked. Treville smiled grimly. How like the dark-haired musketeer to be concerned over others first. Still, the question was a good one, he realized. He hadn't had much of a chance to inspect his own injuries He experimentally wiggled his feet-no pain, there- and then his arms. His left shoulder erupted in a wave of pain that threatened to steal his breath.

"Sir?" Aramis sounded concerned now.

"My shoulder," Treville ground out. "How do you fare, Aramis?"

"I-I don't think I am injured too badly, but I am pinned," the younger man answered. Treville shut his eyes and grimaced. Now he could pick up on the breathless quality to Aramis's voie.

"Just give me a moment and I'll come to you," Treville said.

"Aye Captain," Aramis answered softly.

Treville realized how lucky he was as he was able to get to his feet and move fairly freely through the building, though his shoulder jolted with pain as he stumbled upright. With all of the rubble about, he was quickly able to find a piece of wood suitable for a torch then strip down to his undershirt. He ripped his shirt until it was a long strip, then wrapped it around the wood. Rummaging in the bag at his belt, he sighed in relief as his fingers closed around the flint he always carried. He inspected the makeshift torch- not pretty, but it should work. He set it ablaze.

"Aramis? Where are you?" There was no answer and Treville's stomach plummeted as he clenched his jaw and then climbed to his feet, biting his lip to keep himself from crying out. In the flickering light he could see the blood that coated his fingers and swore under his breath.

"Aramis?" He called again, raising the torch in front of him. He stumbled in the direction Aramis' voice had been coming from, straining for any sign of the other man in the dim light.

"Sir?"

"Aramis!" Treville said, exhaling in relief and going straight towards his fallen comrade. Aramis was slightly propped against a pile of rubble, a large beam across his chest. Treville's heart sank at the sight, but when he got closer he realized that one side of the beam had gotten caught up on something and so laid at an angle; the full weight of it was not on Aramis. Still, there was little doubt in Treville's mind that there would still be more than enough pressure to injure the other man.

"Wait a moment, I'll try to move the beam," Treville said. He was worried that his one good arm wouldn't be enough to shift the beam, but as he tucked his good shoulder beneath it he felt a surge of strength not unlike similar feelings he'd had in battle. It was enough. He heaved the beam from off of Aramis, his own cry mixing with the younger man's.

"Aramis," he groaned, stumbling to Aramis' side and sinking to his knees. Aramis blinked up at him, eyes wide.

"Sir," he said, trying to lever himself upright with a grimace. Treville helped him sit up, watching in concern as Aramis grimaced and pressed a hand to his chest.

"Injuries?" He asked.

Aramis winced. "I've broken some ribs," he said, "but fine otherwise, I think."

"Well," Treville said, "that is more than enough."

"You're bleeding," Aramis said.

Treville sighed and nodded. "I know," he answered. "I'm alright."

"No," Aramis said. Treville raised an eyebrow in surprise. "I can stitch it."

Treville couldn't help the bark of laughter that escaped his lips. "What, did you bring a needle and thread with you?" He asked.

Aramis pulled them out of his bag with a flourish. "When one is around Athos and Porthos, it is best to be prepared," he said, grinning.

Treville shook his head and chuckled lowly. "That is true," he said.

"Mm," Aramis said, deftly threading the needle even in the dim light. "And d'Artagnan seems to require the same care." Treville could hear the other man shifting to get to his shoulder, wincing at the hissed inhalations and low groans.

"Aramis-"

"Let's get your coat off," Aramis interrupted. "Can't very well stitch through the leather."

Treville pursed his lips at the deflection but obliged, clenching his teeth as the coat tugged at his wound.

"I'm just going to rip the shirt," Aramis said. "I think it's beyond saving anyway."

"You'll buy me another, yes?"

Aramis snorted, then groaned quietly. "My allowance is hardly enough to cover your wardrobe, Treville." Aramis ripped the shirt, and Treville could hear stifled grunts.

"Damn it, Aramis, don't do anything to aggravate your injuries," he snapped.

"With respect, sir, you're losing quite a bit of blood. You're already pale. Let me stitch you up and then I'll be happy to relax until we can get out of here."

Treville sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said. "But if your ribs-"

"I'll be fine," Aramis said. "I'm going to pour wine on the wound. It will sting."

"You have wine?"

"As I said, when one is with Porthos and Athos, one really must be prepared."

Treville laughed. "Is the wine typically for them or for you?"

"Me," Aramis answered promptly. "Now hold still. Between the light and my minor injuries, my sewing won't be as neat as usual and if you move it'll look as if I've attempted it drunk."

"Wouldn't want that," Treville said. "You've got quite the reputation."

"Oh?" Aramis said. The needle pressed into his shoulder and Treville hissed, clenching his fists in an attempt to stay still.

"Yes. Porthos brags about you to any willing to listen."

"Well, he has been on the receiving end of my handiwork more often than anyone else," Aramis said. "The least he can do is help my reputation."

"Athos speaks highly of you too," Treville said. "And d'Artagnan practically thinks you're a physician of legend."

Aramis tsked lightly, then stopped stitching. He started to cough, lightly at first, but then harsher.

"Aramis!" Treville barked, trying to turn to see the other man.

"I'm-fine," Aramis managed between coughs. "Give me- just- a moment."

Treville started to twist around again but stopped when it pulled at the wound. He swore loudly.

"I did warn you," Aramis said, taking as deep a breath as he could manage. "I'm nearly done. I'll manage."

"Such insolence," Treville muttered, but he grinned as he said it and Aramis chuckled.

"You can reprimand me when we're out of here," Aramis said. "But for now, I think I've finished. I haven't got any bandages to cover it properly, but it should hold for a while, at least."

"Thank you," Treville said. "Now let's have a real look at your chest, hmm?"

xxxx

Aramis had at least three broken ribs, and his breathing continued to worsen as they sat together. Treville, after resting and getting his strength up a bit, had done his best to find a way out of the collapsed building but had only been able to get a few meters away from Aramis before the way was blocked.

"No luck?" Aramis had gasped as Treville stumbled back to his side. Treville had shaken his head.

"Ah, well," Aramis had said, a faint smile on his face. "They'll find us."

That had been ages ago. The torch had long since burned out, and Aramis was wheezing with every inhalation. Treville had fearfully looked for blood coming from Aramis' mouth, but hadn't seen any. It was possible it had started since the light had gone out, but Treville hoped that Aramis' lungs, at least, were uninjured. With luck, fresh air, free of dust and smoke, would allow Aramis to breathe easier.

None of that mattered, though, so long as they were still stuck in this blasted place.

"Marsac taught me," Aramis said suddenly.

Treville frowned and opened his eyes. Strange, he hadn't even realized they'd been closed.

"Sorry, what?"

"Marsac taught me," Aramis repeated. "To sew."

Treville was still aware enough to recognize that there was something underlying Aramis' tone, though he wasn't certain if it was sadness or regret or guilt. Treville suspected that all of those emotions, and probably more, had been wreaking havoc in Aramis' life of late. Though the younger man had never said anything, Treville thought it likely that Aramis had not been dealing with Marsac's death as well as he'd been letting on.

"It was after a skirmish," Aramis said. "I got nicked, a deep cut across the side of my chest. It was the first time I'd gotten seriously injured and there was so much blood. I thought I was going to die, right there, just the two of us in a field miles away from help."

Treville knew the feeling, knew what it was to be so near death. He knew the heart-pounding fear, the loneliness that came no matter who you were with.

"I lost consciousness and when I came to, it was still just us, but my chest was stitched and bandaged. Marsac had done it."

Treville closed his eyes. He hadn't realized that the relationship between Aramis and Marsac had been even deeper than Savoy.

"I-I made him teach me," Aramis whispered. "Because I realized, that if our roles were ever reversed, I would be helpless and he would die. I made him teach me so that I could repay him someday."

"Aramis-"

"And I certainly did that, didn't I?" Aramis continued, his voice shaky. "I know that I did the right thing, I know, but I can't stop thinking about it."

Aramis fell silent. Treville wasn't sure if he was embarrassed or sad or simply done talking. He wasn't sure what to say to comfort the other man.

"It will fade with time," he said finally. "The pain. The memories will still be there, but the feelings…they'll ease. It doesn't help right now, I know, but it will get better."

Hardly his most eloquent speech, but perhaps one of his most honest. These were things he knew from experience.

"Thank you," Aramis said quietly. Treville shifted closer to him and wrapped his good arm around Aramis' shoulders. Aramis relaxed against him, allowed his head to fall back to rest on Treville's shoulder. Treville could feel the other man's shudders as he struggled to keep breathing and, as exhaustion started to creep up on him, Treville prayed.

xxxx

He didn't know how long he slept when he heard a sound, at first muffled, but gradually growing louder and forming words.

"Here," he tried to say, but his throat was dry and sore and nothing more than a croak came out. He swallowed thickly and tried again. "Here! We're here!" Aramis didn't stir at the shout.

"Aramis," he said, shaking the younger man's shoulders. "Aramis!"

There was a rumbling sound, and then sunlight poured in around them. D'Artagnan's head popped into the hole and he grinned when he saw them. The smile faded when he seemed to realize that they were wounded.

"Sir!" He called. "Aramis! How-are you alright?"

"We would be better if we were out of here," Treville answered.

"Oh, of course," d'Artagnan said, nodding in determination. "Porthos and Athos are coming, we'll have you out in no time, sir. Is Aramis…?"

"He is unconscious," Treville said. D'Artagnan paled slightly, then drew his eyebrows together.

"Tell him to hold fast," he said firmly. "Porthos will have his head otherwise."

Treville managed a smile at d'Artagnan's sincerity, then ran his hand through Aramis' hair.

"Just a bit longer lad," he said as Porthos' booming voice became audible, as the hole of sunlight grew larger and larger. "You'll be alright. They'll see to that."

And as he said it, Treville realized that he truly believed it.

Chapter Text

Treville sat heavily on a chair and watched as Porthos and Athos gently deposited Aramis on the table. The younger musketeer had come around again at some point during the journey to the physician's house and was now sitting half-propped up against Porthos, one arm clutching at the big man's shoulder.

"Get his shirt off," the physician, a diminutive man named DuBois, directed. Porthos and d'Artagnan moved to follow DuBois' instructions even as Athos moved to his side.

"I would clean the wound, sir," he said quietly.

"Oh," Treville murmured. "Aramis has already stitched it."

"Has he?" Athos asked. "How did he manage that?"

"I made a torch," Treville answered. "He already had a needle and thread."

"He carries them always," Athos said with a smile. "More for our sakes than his."

Aramis cried out weakly as DuBois prodded at his chest before asking d'Artagnan to help him make up a poultice. D'Artagnan moved quickly to help, and Aramis rested his forehead against Porthos' shoulder, back heaving, as the other man murmured in his ear in low tones. Treville did not miss the glance that Porthos and Athos exchanged, nor the way d'Artaganan kept looking back at Aramis, a frown on his face.

"Rarely is Aramis the one injured," Athos explained as he began wiping the drying blood from Treville's shoulder. "It is a bit unsettling."

Treville could relate. Seeing the cheerful musketeer groaning in pain and struggling to breathe brought emotions flooding back to Treville's mind and heart; though he hadn't been lying when he told Aramis that feelings faded with time, they could sometimes be provoked and come back with crushing intensity. Listening to Aramis forced the guilt and horror and shock of Savoy rushing back and threatening to paralyze him completely. The near delirium brought on by exhaustion and blood loss probably wasn't helping anything either.

"Sir, you must calm yourself. Try to control your breathing," Athos said.

Treville blinked and took a deep breath, only then realizing how shallowly he'd been breathing.

"He'll be alright," Athos said. "We've got him now."

Treville nodded, watching as d'Artagnan helped slather the poultice on Aramis' bruised chest. Aramis squirmed weakly, cursing lightly under his breath, bringing an arm up to bat feebly at d'Artagnan. Porthos chuckled and gently grabbed Aramis' arm.

"Easy there, 'Mis," Porthos murmured. "Wouldn't want you to hurt the little Gascon."

"Hurt me?" d'Artagnan sputtered indignantly. "And I am not that little."

Aramis choked on a laugh and Porthos patted awkwardly at his back. "Sorry, sorry," he said. "Catch your breath. There you go."

Aramis groaned and slammed a fist on the table. "Hurts Porthos," he grunted.

"I know," Porthos said quietly, looking to Athos with a pained glance. "I know. Hold tight, Aramis. You'll be alright soon."

Aramis nodded and slumped against Porthos, seemingly too exhausted to even cry out as DuBois began to wrap a bandage around his torso. It was only a few moments before he went completely limp. D'Artagnan looked up with a panicked expression, but Porthos just shook his head.

"He's just fainted," he said. "Finally. Too stubborn for his own good, sometimes." Treville didn't miss the fondness of Porthos' tone, nor Athos' faint 'mmm' of agreement. He hadn't been surprised that his men had formed such tight bonds; he was a soldier too and knew how easy it was to begin to rely on your brothers-in-arms. Had to rely on them, really, because if not them, than who? There was no one else who knew the pressure or the exhilaration or the heartache that they endured on almost a daily basis.

Still, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had become a unit far closer than was typical, and now d'Artagnan seemed to be working his way into the group seamlessly. He saw how they seemed to fulfill something in one another. Heaven help him should any of them be injured to the point they could no longer soldier on or, God forbid, be killed.

"How is he?" Athos asked as DuBois approached. DuBois shook his head, wiping his hands on his shirt. Behind him, Porthos had shifted to lay Aramis down on the table and was easing his boots off.

"Lucky," DuBois said. "I think his lungs were likely bruised. If they had been punctured, there would have been nothing to do other than to make him comfortable. Although, I have heard tell of some physicians who have started performing aspirations in an attempt to alleviate symptoms."

"I am relieved," Athos said, "that his lungs were not punctured. But you said they were bruised. What does that mean, exactly?"

"Ah, yes," DuBois said, scrubbing at his hair now. Treville watched him with something between amusement and annoyance; it was clear that Athos only felt irritated. "He should be alright in a few weeks. He'll have to stay in bed for a while, and he absolutely mustn't put pressure on his ribs. Watch him for fever or cough, and should he begin to show symptoms of either we may need to bleed him."

Athos nodded and Treville exhaled slowly. Aramis would be alright.

"Now, monsieur, if I may…?" DuBois asked, and Treville nodded his assent.

"Athos, I'll be alright," Treville said.

"I'll stay," Athos said.

Treville nodded. He was grateful for the company, though he wouldn't say so.

"These stitches are quite good," DuBois said, peering closely at Treville's back. "Though perhaps a bit crooked."

"There were extenuating circumstances," Treville said. Athos raised an eyebrow.

"Defending his honor, sir?"

"Just his stitching," Treville answered. "Damn fine job."

Porthos snorted from the other side of the room. "Wounded and in the dark, and he still manages to give a decent sewing job?" He looked fondly at Aramis and ran a hand through the other man's disheveled hair. "Brilliant."

DuBois nodded. "Yes. It seems a shame, really, that he chose the life of a soldier. Would've made a fine physician, I'd wager."

Treville nodded and yawned, his eyelids feeling incredibly heavy. Athos, of course, noted and looked to DuBois.

"Is there any way for them to sleep here tonight, or should we get them back to the garrison?" He asked.

"Oh, of course. They can stay here for the night. The beds have been made up fairly recently and should be clean enough. Come, come," DuBois said, then bustled out of the room. Athos and d'Artagnan helped Treville to his feet as Porthos lifted Aramis into his arms with little more than a slight grunt. Soon, they were situated in a small room with two beds, Aramis propped up against a few pillows, Treville carefully situated on his side so that his shoulder wasn't sore. Porthos settled into a chair at the side of Aramis' bed. Athos spoke to him quietly so that Treville couldn't hear, but when they were done speaking he gestured to d'Artagnan and turned to Treville.

"Porthos will take first watch, sir. I'll be back in a few hours."

Treville frowned. "That is not necessary," he said. "We'll be perfectly alright here."

"Captain, you and Aramis are both wounded and would be unable to defend yourselves should anything happen."

Treville did not contest the point.

"And you need your rest. We both know you won't sleep if you don't feel secure."

Treville sighed. Athos grinned.

"Let us look out for you, sir," he said, resting a hand on Treville's shoulder.

"Alright," Treville answered, eyelids drifting shut. "You've convinced me. Now go on. Knowing Porthos is watching me sleep is bad enough."

Porthos laughed, low and rumbling, and Treville fell asleep with a smile on his face.

Chapter Text

xxxx

"Nearly there," Aramis whispered as Porthos' steps became more unsteady. His own arm ached terribly, perhaps broken, and he was struggling to keep Porthos upright. "Just a bit further. We're nearly there, Porthos."

"'M alright," Porthos mumbled. Aramis shook his head and rolled his eyes.

"Hardly. You will be, though," he said, then glanced over his shoulder to where d'Artagnan was helping Athos stumble forward. The older man looked to be barely conscious.

"How is he doing?" Aramis asked.

"Well enough," Athos said.

"Not well at all," d'Artagnan said promptly. Aramis could imagine the glare Athos was undoubtedly giving d'Artagnan, though he imagined it would likely be a good deal less intense than usual.

"Just a bit further," Aramis repeated. It was true; there was a farmhouse up ahead that he and d'Artagnan hoped would provide much needed shelter. Even if the house's occupants were unwilling to help, Aramis was prepared to use force.

They drew up to the house with apparently no one noticing their arrival; not surprising considering that it was well into the night and the stars weren't visible, hidden by a thick cloud cover that promised rain soon.

"Can you stand on your own for a moment?" Aramis asked. Porthos nodded, then leaned heavily against the wall of the house as Aramis knocked on the door, clutching his left arm to his chest. There was no response, so Aramis pounded again, jaw set.

The door swung open suddenly, to reveal an old man holding a candle and what appeared to be a very old pistol trained directly at Aramis.

"Whoa," Aramis said, raising his good arm in a placating manner. "We are Musketeers," he said. "My friends are wounded and require shelter, a place where I can see to their wounds."

The old man squinted and did not lower the pistol. "Does this look like an inn to you?" He growled. Aramis took a deep breath and tried to keep control over his emotions.

"No monsieur," he said, "but we have been traveling for many hours now, with no inns in sight. Please."

The man raised the candle and peered around Aramis' shoulder. Athos chose that moment to lose consciousness, crumpling to the ground as d'Artagnan let out a cry and tried to ease his descent.

"Please," Aramis repeated.

"Very well. Bring them in," the man said. "But I will watch you closely." He waved his pistol in warning.

"Of course," Aramis said. "You will have no need to use that, I assure you."

The man opened the door as wide as it would go as Aramis went to Athos' side. Together, he and d'Artagnan wrangled Athos through the door and into the man's modest dwelling, easing him onto a table. Aramis hissed as his arm was jostled, sucking a quick breath in through his teeth. D'Artagnan looked up in alarm.

"It's nothing," Aramis said. "Let's get Porthos." D'Artagnan nodded in agreement, but watched Aramis with a frown, clearly not convinced.

They bundled Porthos into the room and helped him into a chair, the only other piece of furniture in the small room.

"Have you any water?" Aramis asked the old man.

"There is a well in the back," the man answered, jerking his chin toward the wall.

"I'll get some," d'Artagnan said, taking a candle offered by the man.

Aramis tried to rip Athos' shirt open to expose the wound on his back, but found that he could not do it one-handed and groaned in frustration. Damn his arm. He looked up to find the old man watching him, still holding tightly to his pistol.

"You'll come to no harm from us," Aramis said. The man raised an eyebrow but did not lower his weapon. Aramis shrugged and turned back to Athos, having resigned himself to just pushing the shirt up as best he could, when a female voice startled him.

"Jacques! What is going on here?"

Aramis turned, surprised to see an old woman standing in the hallway, long white hair tied into a braid and dressed in only a nightgown.

"Helene," the old man, Jacques, said. "These men came seeking shelter."

"Hm," Helene said shortly. "So why are you holding a pistol on them? It is clear that they are no threat in their current condition."

Jacques opened his mouth and then closed it again. Helene clicked her tongue.

"Fine," she said. "You can protect us, but I'm going to help them." She looked to Aramis and smiled. "He's a stubborn old man, but he has a good heart," she said.

"I can see that," Aramis said. "Aramis, of the King's Musketeers. Thank you for your kindness."

"Oh, nonsense," Helene said. "We're only doing what's right. Now, I don't have much experience treating wounds, but I'll be glad to help. What can I do?"

"D'Artagnan has gone to get water, we'll need to clean Athos' wound, and then Porthos'," he said, scrubbing at his hair.

Helene looked at him and frowned. "When are you going to take care of your arm?" She asked.

Aramis managed a tired smile. "The more grievous wounds come first," he said.

D'Artagnan came into the room with two buckets full of water, raising an eyebrow when he saw Helene. Jacques remained in the corner of the room, watching them closely.

"This is Helene," Aramis said, "and this is d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan, rip Athos' shirt and start cleaning the wound; I'll see to Porthos' leg."

Aramis crouched next to Porthos and hitched the other man's pant leg up, shaking his head at the long gash that looped around his calf and trailed up toward his knee. If Porthos were lucky there would be no real damage to his leg; if he were unlucky, he might have a permanent limp.

"You should have your arm seen to," Porthos said, wincing as Aramis dabbed at his wound.

"Not much to be done for it here," Aramis answered without looking up. "I can't set bone."

Porthos huffed out a breath and Aramis could feel his gaze. "Broken then?"

Aramis nodded and bit his lower lip. "I believe so," he said finally.

"Well, even if we can't set it you could at least support it," Porthos said. "D'Artagnan can help you make a sling."

"Ah. I haven't exactly told him about my arm yet."

"Why not?" Porthos asked, frowning.

"He's going to have to help me with the stitching," Aramis explained, "and I didn't want him to panic."

Porthos shook his head. "Not sure I see how hiding it helps with that," he said.

"You're right, of course," Aramis said with a sigh. "I'll go ask him to help. We'll bandage your wound and stitch it once we've seen to Athos. Can you hold on?"

Porthos grinned. "Course," he said. Aramis pulled himself to his feet with only a small wince and made his way to d'Artagnan's side. Helene had helped the Gascon clean Athos' back, and Aramis made a face as he saw the damage done.

"You'll need to stitch that," d'Artagnan said. Helene was watching Aramis closely, and the musketeer suspected she already knew his arm was injured. He took a deep breath.

"We'll need to stitch it," he said. D'Artagnan frowned and Aramis quickly pressed on. "My-my left arm is broken."

D'Artagnan narrowed his eyes in understanding and shook his head. "When you fell during the fight," he said. Aramis nodded. "That was before we even began walking. Why didn't you say anything?"

Aramis shrugged lopsidedly. "There were more pressing issues to be dealt with," he said.

"So," d'Artagnan said, drawing the word out. "So how do we do this together?"

"I'll guide you," Aramis said. "And I can still do some of it."

D'Artagnan swallowed thickly and looked at Athos' back, which was still bleeding sluggishly.

"It'll be a good chance for you to learn," Aramis said. "Athos doesn't have the coordination and Porthos doesn't have the patience, but you just might be able do a decent job of it."

"Right," d'Artagnan said, but he was pale and clearly anxious.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis said gently. "We'll do it together."

"Right," d'Artagnan repeated. "Together."

Aramis poured a liberal amount of wine over Athos' back, then pulled the needle from his pack. "Can you thread a needle?" He asked. D'Artagnan raised his eyebrows.

"I can," Helene said, threading it quickly. "And I can't say I've ever stitched up a person before, but I'm a good enough seamstress. Perhaps I can stitch up your other friend?"

Aramis narrowed his eyes, looking to Porthos. "Can you handle this?" He asked. "If not, d'Artagnan could always-"

"No," Porthos said. "Athos needs the both of you. The least I can do is sit through my stitches."

Aramis looked at him then nodded. He suspected Porthos simply didn't want to lose consciousness, perhaps in an attempt to support Aramis and d'Artagnan or perhaps because he was wary of Jacques, but regardless of why, he looked determined.

"Very well," Aramis said. "Thank you." He turned back to d'Artagnan and grinned tiredly. "I'll push it in, you pull it out. The needle and thread will get bloody and slippery, so be certain your grip is good."

"Right," d'Artagnan said, his voice wobbly. "Bloody and slippery."

Aramis chuckled and slid the needle into Athos' flesh, murmuring quiet instructions to d'Artagnan, who, though pale and slightly shaky, did an admirable job of doing what Aramis asked. By the last few stitches d'Artagnan was doing them alone, and they were nearly-but not quite- as neat as Aramis' own.

"That should do it," Aramis said. D'Artagnan put the needle down with a stuttering sigh, then turned green.

"I-I need to-"

"Go," Aramis said. D'Artagnan rushed outside and vomited loudly. "Ah," Aramis said, looking to Helene and Jacques. "Sorry."

"Not to worry," Helene said.

"Now see to your arm," Porthos ordered. He looked barely conscious, but he glared up at Aramis from half-hooded lids and his expression was murderous.

Aramis nodded, surprised when Jacques approached him.

"You've done a good job, lad," Jacques said quietly. "I've seen a bit of soldiering myself, and, well. I can see that you're a good man. Let us help you now, hmm?"

Aramis blinked and sank onto the table as Helene produced an old piece of cloth and Jacques eased it around his shoulder and under his armpit. He couldn't stifle a gasp of pain when his arm was jostled, couldn't help the tears that escaped his eyes and slid down his face.

He was just so tired of fixing up his friends, of having their blood on his hands, of that helpless feeling that came once you'd done all you'd can but it just wasn't enough. He leaned his head back against the wall and let the tears come. Jacques looked at him appraisingly but didn't say anything.

"Thank you," Aramis whispered when the makeshift sling was tied. D'Artagnan had come back in at some point and was sitting next to Athos, looking utterly drained. Porthos had fallen asleep.

"Here you are," Helene said, bringing an armful of blankets into the room. "I know the floor isn't the most comfortable place, but you'll be warm at least, and lying down."

D'Artagnan nodded and got to work making a nest of blankets on the floor as Helene and Aramis tucked one around Athos.

"Porthos," Aramis said, jostling his friend. "Come, lay down. You'll be moving like an old man tomorrow if you don't."

Porthos nodded and blearily got to his feet, than nestled into the blankets with a grunt. Helene handed them a few pillows, which Aramis took gratefully. Probably they were the only pillows the couple had; it was a small sacrifice that Aramis would not soon forget.

He took his place next to Porthos, wincing at the pain in his arm, but managed to prop himself up partly on Porthos' shoulder and partly on a pillow so that the throbbing in his arm dwindled to barely tolerable. He could hear d'Artagnan making small noises on Porthos' other side as he tried to get comfortable. Soon the younger man was snoring.

"Thank you again," he whispered as Helene left the room with the candle and it became dark.

"Sleep," Jacques answered. "I will watch you."

Chapter Text

They'd taken him outside his favorite tavern. Again. It was almost enough to make a man consider giving up the bottle altogether. They'd hit him over the head and bound his hands roughly behind his back, then yanked a burlap sack over his eyes. Some days, Porthos wondered why he even bothered getting out of bed.

He wasn't sure how long they traveled, as he felt like he was in a daze and he suspected he may have lost consciousness at least once, but by the time they stopped he had regained his faculties enough to prepare to fight back. A few moments after the wagon stopped moving he heard footsteps and low voices before someone shoved him from the back of the wagon to the ground. He grunted as his bound hands prevented him from stopping his fall and his face hit the dirt. He tasted blood as he was tugged to his feet and silently swore vengeance upon all of his captors. He wouldn't use a sword, either. Just a fork.

Someone yanked the bag from his head and he blinked, shifting his weight to attack whoever was closest.

"I wouldn't if I were you, Porthos," someone said from behind him, and then there was a cry of pain that stopped him cold. Slowly, Porthos turned around, stomach dropping at the sight of Aramis, bleeding from a gash above his eyebrow, and with a dagger pressed firmly against his throat. His hands were bound in front of him and as Porthos watched, a tiny trickle of blood traced over his Adam's apple. Aramis swallowed thickly. A thin, wiry man was standing in front of Aramis, apparently the one who'd spoken earlier.

"Let him go," Porthos said quietly. He didn't know who their captors were nor why they'd been taken, but it didn't matter now. The only thing that mattered was getting Aramis to safety. "Let him go and perhaps I will kill you slowly."

The thin man laughed, showing yellowed teeth. Porthos grimaced.

"Bold words for a traitor," he said.

"Do I know you?" Porthos asked, frowning.

"Ah, of course. My name is Alain," the man said. He stepped forward and extended his hand, then retracted it with exaggerated drama, pointing to Porthos' bound hands. He stepped forward again so that he was just in front of Porthos. This close, Porthos could see that Alain was young, perhaps of an age with d'Artagnan, and tall.

"You do not know me yet, Musketeer," Alain hissed, "but I know you."

"If it is ransom you want, my family has a great deal of money. You don't need Porthos," Aramis said suddenly. "If you know him as you claim than you know he hasn't a livre to his name."

Under normal circumstances Porthos would have taken great offense at that statement, but he recognized it as Aramis' way of trying to protect him and instead felt a combination of pride and guilt.

"You have no right to speak here," Alain said, turning to the musketeer and gesturing to the man behind Aramis. The man immediately landed a blow to Aramis' back, doubling him over, then shoved a gag into his mouth and tied it firmly behind his head.

"No!" Porthos shouted, watching in horror as Aramis remained bent, struggling to regain breath that was hampered by the gag. "Aramis!"

After a moment Aramis straightened and made eye contact with Porthos, raising his eyebrows slightly. Porthos was almost certain that the idiot would have grinned at him had he been able.

Alain turned back to Porthos and spread his arms. "Look around you," he said. "Do you think we do not know of Porthos' poverty?"

Porthos frowned and looked more closely at their surroundings for the first time since being dumped from the wagon. They were in a dimly lit room that smelled musty and old, and now that he'd actually looked, Porthos realized with a sinking feeling that they were in the Court of Miracles.

"Why have you brought me here?" He demanded.

"The last time you were here you betrayed us, your people," Alain spat, "when our only aim was to help you, to save you from the noose! Yet you rewarded us with murder and deceit."

"You are mistaken," Porthos began, but Alain cut him off, speaking with so much emotion that his voice trembled.

"No! I attended Charon's funeral, I saw his bloody body! He was murdered."

Porthos was quiet a moment before saying, "You have his murderer. Let Aramis go."

Alain laughed shortly and shook his head. "Ah, but Aramis is his murderer, is he not?"

Porthos fought to keep emotion from his face but his heart pounded heavily in his ears. How did they know?

"It was me," Porthos said in desperation. "I killed him!"

Alain shook his head. "Loyal to the end, eh Porthos?" He asked. "Too bad you weren't so loyal to Charon. Aramis may have pulled the trigger, but it was your betrayal that led to his death."

Porthos swallowed thickly, anger welling up at hearing the other man say Aramis' name. "If you know all this than you must know that he was planning to destroy the Court of Miracles!" He cried.

"He loved this place!" Alain roared. "He loved us! He would not have done that!"

Porthos' heart sank. It was clear that Alain was heartbroken over Charon's death and would not hear the truth. He looked to Aramis- bound, gagged, and bleeding- and saw the same recognition in his eyes.

"Alain-"

"By right we should kill you both right here," Alain said, "but whatever you are now, you were once an honored thief here. We will show you mercy. You will have your chance."

Porthos had a feeling that whatever the chance was, he wouldn't like it.

xxxx

"Please. Alain, let him go."

Alain didn't turn toward him, but continued with his task.

"Alain! Let. Him. Go!"

"Peace, Porthos. You have the chance now to free both of you."

"Alain!" Porthos yelled again, but the other man paid no heed. Another man thrust a pistol into Porthos' hands before standing beside him.

"Well," Alain said. "Get on with it, then."

Porthos gripped the pistol and looked down the street, to Aramis. His friend was standing in front of a post, still bound and gagged, but he looked at Porthos with an expression of absolute trust. There was a melon perched on top of his head and three men with guns trained at him. Porthos wouldn't be able to kill all three before one of them shot Aramis. No, he would have to make the shot.

Taking a deep breath, he gauged the distance they'd set between him and Aramis; a good fifteen or twenty yards. He knew that Aramis would have been able to do it, but he wasn't as adept with a pistol as his friend, and his hands wouldn't stop trembling. Porthos swallowed thickly.

"Porthos," Alain said. "We are waiting." One of the men shoved the butt of his pistol into Aramis' ribs to make the point even clearer.

"Alright," Porthos whispered. He could do this. He raised the pistol and took a deep breath, exhaling through his mouth. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, fire.

The discharge was loud, echoing through the street as Aramis' head snapped to the left in a spray of blood.

Porthos screamed.

xxxx

It wasn't anything unusual for Porthos and Aramis to both be gone for a night. Aramis was probably off with a beautiful woman and Porthos had probably gotten drunk and perhaps stayed the night with a friend in the city. They could have even been drinking together and simply lost track of time. It really wasn't anything to worry about. Really.

Athos sighed and rubbed at one eye, picking idly at his food. D'Artagnan looked up at him with a raised eyebrow, but Athos noted that his food, too, remained largely untouched.

"Do you think…," d'Artagnan started, but trailed off at a look from Athos.

"They are fine," Athos said.

They were silent for a few minutes before d'Artagnan sighed loudly and looked up at Athos.

"Athos," he said, but was cut off when a woman cried Athos' name. D'Artagnan frowned and looked up in confusion, mouth still open. Athos turned around and was surprised to see Flea coming toward him.

"Athos!" She cried. Her expression left little doubt that she was not there with good news, and Athos was certain that it would be in relation to at least one of his missing comrades. "They've taken Porthos and Aramis to the Court of Miracles!"

Athos stared for a second before pushing away from the table and standing. "You can explain on the way. We'll get you a horse."

Only a few minutes later they were tearing out of the garrison as Flea explained about Alain, a man who had been fiercely loyal to Charon and who had vowed to seek vengeance upon his murderer, and how she had feared for Porthos' life and so told him that it was Aramis who had pulled the trigger.

"I didn't think he would be so bold as to take Aramis," Flea said in a whisper. "I-I underestimated his loyalty to Charon and his anger."

"But they are alive?" d'Artagnan demanded, his jaw set. Flea nodded.

"Yes, but we must hurry," Flea said. She didn't say more and Athos didn't press. He didn't need to know so long as they got there on time.

That was all that mattered now.

They didn't bother slowing down as they entered the Court of Miracles, and no one seemed to pay them any mind. In fact, there were far fewer people than there'd been the last time they'd entered the Court; Athos had a sinking feeling that might be related to whatever was happening to Porthos and Aramis.

The air was tense as Flea led them further through the twisting streets, a sense of expectation. A tiny part of Athos' heart whispered that it could be a hanging, but he shoved the thought from his head with fierce anger. Not that. Never that.

And then, a gunshot split the silence.

And then, Porthos screamed.

A chill ran down Athos' spine and d'Artagnan swore loudly. Athos tried to quell his panic and calm his racing heart and then, almost as if by accident, they were there.

Porthos was on his knees, screams reduced to a stunned silence, eyes wide and hands clutching at his short hair. At the other end of the street lay Aramis' crumpled form.

"No!" Athos roared, and chaos erupted. He and d'Artagnan fired at the men nearest Porthos and he thought maybe he heard Flea shoot as well. He drew his sword and lurched forward with a yell, stabbing and slashing with a sense of detachment he didn't often feel in battle, one borne of desperation and fury.

It was over quickly- or, maybe, it had taken a long time. He wasn't sure, seemed to have lost all sense of time. He couldn't focus, couldn't think anything except Aramis Aramis, please no Aramis.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan yelled, and Athos blinked and shook his head. They were surrounded by dying men and dead men and the street had been deserted by nearly everyone else.

Porthos was sitting on top of someone, shouting incoherently and pummeling his fist into the other man's face. Athos ran toward him as d'Artagnan slid to a stop next to Aramis.

"Porthos!" Athos shouted, grabbing one of Porthos' broad shoulders. Porthos shrugged him off with a growl, but Athos grabbed him again. "Porthos! You must stop! What about Aramis?"

"Aramis is dead!" Porthos cried, and the despair in his voice shook Athos to his core. He swallowed thickly.

"We don't know that," he whispered.

"I-I killed him," Porthos said, turning to him. His knuckles were bloody, his eyes haunted. "I killed him, Athos." He leaned forward and all but fell into Athos' arms, sobbing quietly. Athos wrapped his arms around his friend and blinked rapidly.

"He's alive, Athos!" d'Artagnan yelled suddenly. Porthos stiffened in his arms. The man Porthos had been beating remained motionless. Athos didn't know nor care if he was alive.

"Come on then," Athos said hauling Porthos to his feet. They hurried to Aramis' side, where Flea and d'Artagnan were crouched. D'Artagnan was holding a piece of cloth to Aramis' head; it was already soaked through with blood.

"The ball didn't enter, just winged him," d'Artagnan said quietly, loosening the pressure just enough for Athos to see where blood was welling from the left side of Aramis' head, matting his curly hair. "But it was a close thing and it's bleeding pretty badly. We've got to get him back to the garrison." Athos looked to Porthos, but the other man refused to make eye contact. He had laid one trembling hand on Aramis' shoulder and was staring at the ground. Athos sighed.

"I am not certain he would survive the trip," Athos said in a low voice.

D'Artagnan nodded and paled. "Flea," he said, "can you find a needle and thread?"

"Of course," Flea said. "You can take him in that building just there," she said, jerking her chin toward a rundown house. "It'll be safer than the street."

"Thank you," Athos said as she turned and ran. Gently, they lifted Aramis' limp form from the ground and carried him into the house. As they did so Athos noticed for the first time a melon, perfect and whole, lying in the dust near where Aramis had been laying and a cruel picture started to form in his mind of what had happened.

"Here," Flea said, thrusting a needle and thread at Athos and gesturing to a table. "Lay him down here."

They laid Aramis down and Athos got a good look at his face, at how pale he was and at just how much blood there was. It completely coated the left side of his face and was dripping onto the table. Athos swallowed thickly again. This wasn't the first time he'd seen an injury of course, but it was Aramis, it was his head, and Porthos had somehow been the one to pull the trigger.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan said. Athos looked down at the needle and thread he held and took a deep breath. He could do this. He had to.

"Just- just a moment," he said. Porthos was still silent, still looked haunted. Aramis looked dead already and Athos pressed his fingers into his neck just to reassure himself that there was still a pulse. He closed his eyes at the steady, if fast heartbeat he felt.

"I'll do it," d'Artagnan said suddenly and Athos felt the needle taken from his fingers. "I can do it. Flea, perhaps Porthos could use a drink."

Flea did as directed, gently steering Porthos away from the table and shooting a confused glance toward Athos and d'Artagnan.

"Right," d'Artagnan said. "Can you help me?"

Athos stared at him numbly, simultaneously wondering where the hell this had come from and incredibly proud.

"Yes," he said. "I can."

xxxx

Porthos hadn't moved from Aramis' side since they'd gotten back to the garrison. D'Artagnan had done an admirable job with the stitches and, anyway, Aramis' unruly hair would almost certainly cover the scar anyway.

That was, of course, assuming he would wake up.

It'd been two days and they all knew that head injuries were bad, that even though the ball hadn't penetrated his skull, there was still a chance that he wouldn't wake up. Porthos had been spooning broth into his mouth and mostly succeeding at getting him to swallow, but still Aramis looked thin and sallow.

"Porthos. Eat," Treville said, coming into the room. Porthos didn't bother looking up. "That was an order."

Porthos accepted the bowl of soup with a grunt of thanks, but he didn't move to eat it.

"Porthos," Treville said again. "You'll do him no good if you don't take care of yourself."

"I'm doing him no good now," Porthos grumbled. "He doesn't know I'm here."

Treville sighed. "Maybe," he allowed, "but maybe he does."

Porthos took a bite of the soup. It tasted bitter and he had no appetite anyway, but he forced himself to eat.

"Athos and d'Artagnan are concerned about you."

"They shouldn't be," Porthos spat.

Treville rested a hand on his shoulder. "What happened wasn't your fault," he said, then left the room.

Porthos turned back to continue his vigil and was startled to see Aramis' brown eyes squinting at him.

"Aramis?" He whispered.

"Mmf," Aramis murmured. "M' head." He reached a hand to his head, but Porthos caught it and held it.

"Leave it alone, 'Mis," he said. "d'Artagnan did your stitches and he'd be right upset if you mucked them up now."

Aramis closed his eyes. "d'Artagnan?"

"Yes," Porthos said. "He did well."

"Mm," Aramis said, his disbelief clear in that one syllable. "Porthos?"

"Hmm?"

"I wouldn't have been able to make that shot."

Porthos blinked back tears and squeezed Aramis' hand.

"Porthos?"

"Yes?"

"If no woman will have me now, I blame d'Artagnan."

This time Porthos laughed and shook his head. "We'll see about that when you're up and about, huh? Just rest now. Rest and get well."

"Mm," Aramis hummed, already drifting off.

"Sleep, 'Mis," Porthos said "And when you wake, I'll let you teach me how to stitch."

"'Bout time," Aramis whispered, then slept. And for the first time since the whole ordeal had started, Porthos allowed himself to sleep too.