Chapter Text
Previously……
“D’Artagnan, do you hear that? It’s Porthos and Ryder, we’ll be out of here in no time, and not a minute too soon, you may look skinny but it feels like you weigh a ton leaning on me,” Athos teases shakily.
“D’Artagnan? D’Artagnan!”
There’s no response but Athos refuses to panic. They’re seconds away from being rescued, of course he’s fine…he has to be.
He puts two fingers to his throat and calmly feels for a pulse, but his hands are shaking so hard he can’t seem to find one. “Child, you’re scaring me,” Athos hisses close to his ear and he grabs his wrist but he’s got a watch with a thick rubber strap on one hand and something he has no idea of what purpose it serves on the other. No amount of manoeuvring can loosen either one, not with his hands trembling so hard.
“D’Artagnan, answer me damn it!”Athos demands angrily, giving him a rough shake.
No response.
“Child, please…”
There’s nothing. No gasp of pain, no steady rhythm under his searching fingers and no trademark snarky reply at the use of the hated nickname. Athos can’t get his hand under the lad’s Kevlar to feel for a heart beat or the rise and fall of his chest, not without disturbing the metal bar embedded in his abdomen and he stops trying.
One tear falls, then another and Athos is brutally reminded that they’d been in a very similar situation a couple of years ago, at the farmhouse, after Marcheaux. But that night Aramis had been with them when the foolish child had passed out in his arms…and he’d been breathing, his pulse strong and steady despite the blood dripping from his mouth and pouring out of a hole in his chest. He wants to call out to Porthos but his throat has gone so tight he knows that no sound will come out. This is not happening, absolutely, positively not happening.
The God that everyone seems to believe in with so much devotion cannot be this cruel, Athos thinks firmly, and he shakes d'Artagnan one more time and swallows the dryness in his throat and leans forward and hisses his name directly in his ear…and yet, there is still nothing.
Athos hears the sound of boots on the metal stairs and the loud scraping of rubble being pushed aside and then Porthos, Ryder, Beetle and Mouse appear, climbing carefully over chunks of concrete and twisted metal, followed by paramedics carrying orange plastic stretchers. Athos tries to speak when they gently move d’Artagnan away but he’s smothered by Porthos who’s hugging him tight and kissing his cheeks before he pulls back to make room for the medics.
Athos is lifted gently and carefully into one of those basket-style stretchers and a needle is inserted into the back of his hand, a thermal blanket tucked tightly around him. He can’t see what’s happening beside him because too many people are standing around him but Porthos is cursing loudly and telling someone to hurry the fuck up and an unfamiliar voice yells clear and Athos knows what that means, he knows what they’re trying to do and that’s it, he can’t do this anymore, he can’t face this.
He shuts his eyes and lets go.
PART 1
“Open your eyes, brother, that’s it…look at me…let’s see those gorgeous eyes that drive the ladies wild.”
Aramis of course.
Athos blinks, his eyes feel gritty, like they’re full of sand, and they itch. He tries to lift one hand to rub at them but someone – Aramis probably – stops him gently.
“Don’t move around, my friend, you’re attached to a helluvalot of equipment,” Aramis explains.
“Listen, we need to discuss something and we only have a few minutes so please try to focus.”
“Where am I?” Athos asks, completely baffled. He turns his head slightly from side to side and quickly realises; hospital.
“Athos do you remember the explosion?” his friend asks cautiously.
Explosion. Jesus Christ he was in an explosion.
With d’Artagnan.
Who is now dead.
“Oh God, Aramis, the child…he’s gone,” Athos croaks, eyes opening wide. At once they fill with tears and he lets out a soft, agonised sob, grief ripping through his gut like a knife.
Aramis gasps. “No brother, he’s not, I swear, he’s in surgery but he’ll be fine, I promise!” Aramis is saying in an urgent tone, but Athos had been there, d’Artagnan had died in his arms, taken his last breath surrounded by rubble and filth, covered in both his and Athos’ blood and suddenly Athos has a horrible thought.
“Constance,” he croaks, “Does she know? Dear God, Aramis, is she alright? The baby?”
“Athos you need to calm down! D’Artagnan is not dead and Constance is…she’s fine, she’s had her baby, a little boy, he came a little unexpected but he’s perfectly healthy. She’s ok now and everyone else is fine, Porthos and the lads, they’re all here, there’s nothing to worry about except you right now,” Aramis insists.
Athos blinks away the tears and gets a better look at his friend. Aramis looks haggard, it’s the only way to describe the state of him; unkempt, dark wavy hair askew as if he’s spent hours running his hands through it as he does when he’s stressed, and his eyes look swollen and bloodshot…as if he’s been crying.
“You’re lying to me,” Athos decides. “You look like you’ve been crying…for hours…oh God, he is gone, isn’t he?”
“Damn it Athos, no he’s not! It was Constance, she had a difficult birth, it was…stressful and yes, I may have shed a tear or two,” he admits, “but I promise you that idiotic boy is not dead, I just told you he’s in surgery, I’ll take a fucking picture of him if I have to but you need to listen to me very carefully, brother,” Aramis urges, clearly out of patience.
Athos though can’t seem to focus on Aramis anymore. There is a buzzing in his ears and he feels lightheaded and his head lolls to the side and he lets his eyes close while he tries to absorb all the information Aramis has just shared.
“Athos, this is getting tedious,” Aramis says, sounding angry. “Open your eyes for one bloody minute and listen to me!”
At once, Athos reacts to the harsh tone of his brother’s voice and he pries open his eyes.
“Thank you. Now, your leg was damaged in the explosion and it’s pretty bad but Treville and I have arranged for a specialist to be flown in from Germany. I’ve signed all the papers on your behalf; you gave me the legal right to do so and I’ve exercised that right my friend,” Aramis explains slowly and carefully. “But I wanted you to know before they take you for surgery.”
Surgery…on his useless leg that has been the cause of so much pain and anguish. Out of the question.
“No,” Athos says simply. He won’t go through all of that again; surgery, physio, more surgery, more physio, quacky alternative medicines for the pain that never worked, the prospect of becoming addicted to controlled substances, the inability to take two steps without the use of a cane, no, he prefers amputation and one of those advanced and exorbitantly expensive prosthetics that will allow him to walk unaided and a future not clouded with fear of prescription pain relievers.
Aramis looks shocked. “What?”
“I said no, cut it off, I can’t live like this anymore.”
“Athos, you’re heavily medicated and don’t know what you’re saying,” Aramis reasons. “I am responsible for making the best choice for you and I have!” Aramis insists.
“Where’s Treville? He’ll listen to me,” Athos slurs, feeling dizzy again.
“Treville is the one who arranged to have the surgeon brought here! No, it’s out of the question. This doctor is a miracle worker, I swear to you, brother, he will fix you, you’ve got to believe me!”
“I’m begging you Aramis, cut the damned thing off! It’s ruined my life and cost the lad his, I can’t…I just can’t,” Athos whispers. His head feels heavy and he thinks he might vomit.
Aramis lets out a frustrated growl and moves in closer to the bed. “For the last time, d’Artagnan is NOT DEAD! And I’m not letting them cut off your leg. After the surgery when you’re life is no longer in danger and I’m sure you can make an informed decision you can ask for amputation yourself. At the moment though you are incapable of making that choice and I won’t allow it, I’m sorry, brother, I can’t. I love you, dearly, and I’ve got to do what’s best.”
“Sir, they’re ready for him, I’m sorry, you’ll have to wait outside,” an unfamiliar male voice says apologetically.
“Yes, of course,” Aramis replies and then he leans over and presses a kiss to Athos’ check. “You know I’m doing this because you’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a best mate and you’re brother to all of us. You won’t regret it, I promise.”
“Damn you, Aramis,” Athos croaks. “Please…don’t…”
Suddenly though his bed is moving and he’s being taken away and Aramis is no longer at his side. How could he do this to him? How could he go against his wishes and call himself brother?
That’s the last thought Athos has before the mask comes down over his face and everything fades away.
To be continued.....