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“If Vadim weren’t already dead I’d gladly run him through with my own blade,” Aramis swore viciously as he tenderly treated an unconscious d’Artagnan’s torn up wrists.
“Where’s Athos?” Porthos growled.
“Giving his report to the captain,’ Aramis snapped, not pleased at all after finding out what truly happened to d’Artagnan.
“Wait til Athos gets a look at the lad’s wrists.”
“And don’t forget the boy’s concussion.” Aramis kept rubbing soothing salve over the youngster’s abused flesh.
“D’Artagnan didn’t pass out til we got em’ home.”
“Vadim definitely left a lasting impression on all of us it seems,” Aramis mused, rubbing his own forehead where an ache was beginning to blossom behind his eyes.
“Secret of a good trick,” d’Artagnan mumbled while he was starting to rouse.
“Yeah, I remember you tellin’ us that before, d’Artagnan,” Porthos said, softening his tone so as not to bother their young one’s aching head.
“He made all of us look the other way,” d’Artagnan remarked as he slowly opened both eyes. “I was stupid to think he didn’t see through my ruse. Vadim took great pleasure in telling me how he gave me false information to pass along to Captain Treville.”
“We were all mislead,” Athos strode into d’Artagnan’s room. “The look of guilt is clearly written all over your faces and more than likely has to do with d’Artagnan,” brows drawing together he frowned down at the boy. “What has happened this time?”
D’Argagnan tried to hide his wrists from Athos sharp eyes, but Aramis was preventing him. “Stop it! I don’t want him to see this,” he hissed at his friend.
“Why, for heaven’s sake!” Aramis whispered back, annoyed with the youth.
“Ashamed,” d’Artagnan eyes started to fill with tears. Hanging his head he mumbled one word. “Failed.”
“Non, non, non!” With his thumb, Aramis wiped an errant tear tracking down the child’s woeful looking face. “They’re badges of courage.”
“Will someone please explain to me what the deuce is going on!” Then it dawned on Athos before he left to see their captain, d’Artagnan was standing on his own two feet. Seeing their pup laying down on his bed filled him with fear. “D’Artagnan, are you ill?” Seeing that his young friend was stripped down to his smalls Athos realized how close a call the boy had to joining his father in the grave when his eyes slid down d’Artagnan’s torso which was littered with varying degrees of color from all the bruises he had accumulated.
Not being one to hold in his temper any longer, Aramis rounded on Athos. “D’Artagnan passed out shortly after you left us,” he huffed. “He was closer to the explosion than any of us knew.” Aramis quickly crossed himself, also thinking that they could have been burying the child if d’Artagnan hadn’t literally saved his own hide.
“How close?” Athos’s blue eyes narrowed.
“Lad was tied to barrels of that gunpowder that went boom, nearly doing us all in,” Porthos grunted.
“How did you manage to escape?” Athos watched d’Artagnan bat Aramis’s hands away for the third time. So he took matters into his own hands by sitting on the other side of the young man’s bed. Athos lifted d’Artagnan’s wrists gently to examine the damage and swore softly. “Merde!”
“When d’Artagnan rubbed his wrists raw trying to get out of those ropes he barely made it out of there when the gunpowder exploded,” Aramis made a clucking sound as the wound on the boy’s head began to bleed again. “Thought I had that under control,” he muttered to himself as he went about putting a stop to the bleeding once more.
“That’s why d’Artagnan’s chest and back resemble a bad painting,” Porthos chuckled.
“Good one,” d’Artagnan winced as he tried to laugh along. But his sore muscles wouldn’t let him get away with even that.
Watching Athos turning white in the face, d’Artagnan reached out to place his own hand on the older man’s cheek. “I’m still here, Athos,” he smiled tentatively.
“You almost died,” Athos choked out as he reached to fold the child in his arms. Running his one hand up and down d’Artagnan’s tender back, he sighed into the boy’s hair. “When Vadim said *it was a good trick and it should have worked*,” Athos paused and closed his eyes briefly as he shuddered with the reality of what could have happened, “you replied that it nearly did,” he placed a light kiss on d’Artagnan’s forehead. “Now I know what you meant.”
“Some *trick*,” Porthos growled again. “Killing off our youngest while Vadim made us all think he was gonna kill the king and queen to boot, and the whole time he was just plain plannin’ on robbery.”
Holding d’Artagnan away from him, Athos noticed the child was trying to hide his pain. “No duties for you until you’ve recovered. I’ll inform Treville.” Tapping the youngster’s chin he lifted it up with a finger. “You did well. Never think you did not.”
“If the jailor hadn’t called me a Musketeer in the first place my cover may not have been blown,” d’Artagnan tried to throw off the blanket Aramis insisted on smothering him with. “I feel foolish. That’s probably when Vadim began to doubt my story.”
“None of that *foolish* talk now. We should have all thought of that,” Aramis rolled his eyes and could have kicked himself.
“Enough people have seen d’Artagnan with us and knew his aspirations of becoming a Musketeer,” Athos grumbled.
“Why didn’t Captain Treville warn the men at the jail then to keep their traps shut?” Porthos grew madder the more he thought about it.
“Remember this plan was conceived initially by Treville along with d’Artagnan’s blessing,” Athos reminded them. “And as his trusted soldiers we were brought into it. No one else was supposed to know. It had to be realistic.”
“Well my wounds definitely feel *realistic* to me,” d’Artagnan moaned as he gripped his side as his ribs decided to scream in protest.
“Speaking of blessings,” Aramis piped up cheerily, “we should count them because the king and queen were never in any danger to begin with. The jewels are safe and sound and the most important thing,” he held up a hand, “we’re all still alive to complain about this damn plot!”
Glancing at d’Artagnan who succumbed to exhaustion again, Aramis brushed a stray hair out of the boy’s eyes while he slept. “We’re going to have to keep a closer eye on him,” he smiled. “D’Artagnan has a habit of finding trouble.”
“Ya mean trouble has a habit of finding our lad,” Porthos winked. “But in the meantime I’ll teach him to be sneaker,” Porthos placed a large hand on their young one’s head.
Resting his palm on d’Artagnan’s chest to check on his breathing, Aramis was pleased. “He may need lessons in how to patch himself up at this rate and perhaps us,” he smirked. “I could do with someone else knowing how to use a needle, and I’m just the man for the job.”
“And I,” Athos added, “I’ll turn old and grey before my time taking care of d’Artagnan and you two as well.”
“I’m for something to drink,” Porthos announced. “All this worryin’ has made me thirsty.”
“Did you bring wine, my friend,” Aramis looked over at Athos hopefully.
“Of course. It's over there on the table.”
As the three inseparables sipped their fine Anjou they gave a silent toast to d’Artagnan as the men watched their young pup heal.
The End