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D’Artagnan could not say how much time had actually passed, but it felt simultaneously as though he had passed a century and yet no time at all in a haze of pain and bandages and bitter-tasting tonics poured down his throat. He had half-memories of crying out and being soothed, thrashing and being stilled with a touch, but they were all distorted in a drugged fog. Now, though, he was sure he was waking more fully, blinking at unfamiliar walls and a throbbing ache in his leg that was splinted and covered in bandages. He was finally beginning to clear the worst of the drowsy, heavy feeling in his head, when he felt a convivial hand pat his shoulder, before helping him sit up to take another drink of water.
“Congratulations,” he heard Aramis saying, “you are the first to remain fully conscious for more than an hour after their injury.”
“What’s my reward?” Even with the water, D’Artagnan’s voice still croaked from disuse, and he rubbed at his throat, trying to clear it. His leg gave a twinge.
“Consciousness.”
“Mmm,” D’Artagnan groaned as Aramis laughed, “I want a better one.”
Aramis’s brow furrowed. “Is the pain bad? I have a couple different tinctures—“
“Nothing yet.” D’Artagnan waved a hand and dragged himself up further against the headboard. “I want to extend my record.”
Aramis smiled cheekily, swiping his fingers quickly beneath his nose. “Perhaps it was a bit of an unfair game in any case, as you were heavily drugged.” His voice took on a serious note. “You were in a lot of pain.”
Thankfully, D’Artagnan could not remember much of how his leg had come to be bandaged and bound like a mummy, but the memory of his brothers falling alongside him shifted vaguely to the front of his mind with a shudder. “The others?” he asked. “Athos and Porthos?”
Aramis sniffled and gave a small cough before answering. “Porthos’s head sustained a major blow. He didn’t wake for a worryingly long period, but he’s been awake now here and there, long enough for me to check on him.” Aramis blew out a breath, and added, as if an intercession, an afterthought. “He’s getting better, slowly but surely.”
“Good.”
“And Athos, he was doing almost the best of us all, his stomach wound stitched up nicely, until a little infection set in.” He sighed shakily, the sound almost snagging on another cough. “It was… scary for a little while, but the fever is low and I’ve been draining the wound. He should heal well in time.”
“Good.”
“I’ve informed Treville that we will remain here until everyone is fit to ride back to Paris, or at least until we can manage a cart for you to ride in with that leg of yours, since I suspect that will take the longest.”
Aramis sniffled again, and D’Artagnan could maybe excuse it, could chalk it up to the herbs in some poultice or another bothering him, if his cheeks did not appear slightly flushed, if his voice was not seeming hoarser and hoarser the more they spoke and the more alert D’Artagnan became.
D’Artagnan cocked his head. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
Aramis wrinkled his nose in thought for a moment, before saying, “That you could use a bit of a shave?”
A quick palm over his jaw told D’Artagnan this observation probably had some merit, but Aramis cleared his throat, and D’Artagnan would not let the man get away with deliberate redirection. “Anything else?”
But perhaps there was nothing deliberate about it, for Aramis crinkled his brow again, pondering deeply as though D’Artagnan had set him a riddle, even as he sniffled again and wiped at his nose.
D’Artagnan sighed. “I mean, about you?”
Aramis looked up at him in surprise, sniffling wetly.
“And why you’re doing that ?”
Aramis’s already pinkish cheeks blushed scarlet, and he gave another small cough. “There is a chance,” Aramis said, sighing, “that I might—potentially—be a little bit sick, but it’s fine.”
“I assume you haven’t informed the others about this hypothetical illness?”
“Of course not,” Aramis said, right according to cue. “They, much like you, have enough to trouble themselves over already.” He sniffled again and tried giving his nose another wipe, but this time it was not enough, and he shook with two tightly stifled sneezes.
D’Artagnan rolled his eyes as the man produced a handkerchief from his pocket and gave his nose a blow that was simultaneously the quietest and wettest thing he had ever heard. “Have you taken anything for your theoretical congestion?”
“I brewed myself some tea earlier.” When D’Artagnan continued to look unimpressed, Aramis sighed. “I have another pot of water on the boil now, and if I have any left over after wound cleanings and no one else wakes up and needs any, I’ll breathe in some steam.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine, D’Artagnan, there’s truly no need to worry.”
When D’Artagnan assured him that he did not want another draught of pain medicine for the time being, Aramis took to the chair which sat at the front of the room, perched in a strategic location which allowed him to oversee all goings-on of the makeshift infirmary like the benevolent tyrant he was. All was silent for a little while, and D’Artagnan contented himself with listening to the deep, snore-like breaths of Porthos in the bed across from him, and watching the chest of the Athos-shaped lump in the bed at the back wall rise and fall melodically.
Then of course, there were the sniffles and snuffles and increasingly erratic breaths from the fourth member of their brotherhood, which crescendoed at last out of his grasp and into two more hastily stifled sneezes. He blew his nose again, so softly that had D’Artagnan not been listening for it he might not have noticed it.
“Well, I already know you’re sick, so there’s nothing to hide,” D’Artagnan said. “No use doing that.”
“Hmm?” Aramis gave a congested hum, and regarded D’Artagnan over the folds of his handkerchief with eyes so glassy and tired it was a wonder they stayed open. He sniffled, completely blocked-up again, but tucked his handkerchief away nonetheless.
“Holding them in like that. It can’t be comfortable.”
“I don’t want to wake anyone.”
D’Artagnan rolled his eyes and cupped a hand to his mouth. “Athos! Porthos!”
“D’Artagnan!” Aramis hissed, horrified. “Stop it!”
“They’re stealing the wine! They’re stealing all the food!” D’Artagnan called, but his brothers slept away, the patterns of their breathing not so much as having changed. He turned his attention back to Aramis and fixed him with a smug look. “See? Nothing. Just let yourself sneeze, for God’s sake.”
It was Aramis’s turn to look completely put-out. Still, the next sneezes which assaulted him were not stifled, merely muffled into the fabric of his handkerchief. Somehow, the sound was still entirely shy and mouselike, and D’Artagnan still reasoned that those couldn’t be entirely unrestrained or natural.
He let his thoughts drift for a little while, only coming back to awareness when a bit of shuffling and squirming in the bed at the wall across from him caught his attention. “Athos looks a little restless,” he noted.
D’Artagnan looked over at Aramis, and his heart broke at the sight of the man sitting in the chair, staring off into space with half-lidded eyes, his mouth parted slightly to breathe as he rubbed his nose absently with his handkerchief. D’Artagnan immediately felt guilty for having said anything at all, and this guilt multiplied tenfold when the meaning of his words finally broke through Aramis’s fog and sent the man rocketing from his seat with a handful of throaty coughs.
His feverish eyes landed on the clock on the wall, then darted to where Athos lay, writhing slightly. “Oh, damn, it’s time for another fever reducer!”
“I’ll get it,” D’Artagnan said, and threw the blanket off from his body.
“No you won’t, D’Artagnan!” He called as he rushed to the table to prepare the dose, crushing leaves beneath his pestle, which he brandished in D’Artagnan’s direction when the man tried to swing his legs around to the floor. “Stay there, or I’ll hit you!”
A low voice from across the room mumbled, just loudly enough to hear, “Can’t hit D’Artagnan, he’s hurt.”
“Porthos!” Aramis cried, nearly upending the bowl of herbs. “I’ll be right with you. How are you feeling?”
Porthos’s reply was a long groan that, all things considered, D’Artagnan could very much identify with. The throbbing in his own leg was becoming persistently harder to ignore, but he would be absolutely damned if he mentioned this to Aramis before had treated everyone else.
He noticed the way Aramis’s hands, normally steady and sure, were anything but as he prepared the herbs to steep. There was a frenetic quality to his movements that worried D’Artagnan, and he held his breath as Aramis poured the water he had been boiling into a cup, hands shaking so badly D’Artagnan was sure the man would burn himself.
He saw the pallor of Aramis’s skin stood in contrast to the red set high on his cheeks, and D’Artagnan could not help but say, “Maybe you should make yourself a fever-reducing draught, Aramis.”
That earned him the type of glare from Aramis that could kill lesser men surer and swifter than any sword strike or musket ball.
“Aramis?” Porthos said dazedly. “Thought Athos had the fever.”
“He does,” Aramis said darkly, adding cool water to the cup so the mixture would be a suitable temperature for Athos to drink. “D’Artagnan’s pain draught makes him say odd things.”
“Mmm,” Porthos hummed, still sounding confused. “Hate head wounds.” D’Artagnan nodded his commiseration to the man, before belatedly realizing Porthos had closed his eyes again.
Aramis had taken the fever tea to Athos and was helping the sedate man tip his head up enough to drink it, when Porthos groaned again, the sound higher and more urgent this time. “Gonna be sick.”
Aramis paused, the cup at Athos’s lips. “Can you…” He broke off, the sound of Porthos’s retching permeating the room and rendering the rest of his question unnecessary. “Wait.” Aramis sighed. “I guess not.”
“I’m sorry,” Porthos said miserably.
“No, it’s my fault,” Aramis rushed to assure him. “I didn’t put the bucket back after I cleaned it last.” D’Artagnan followed his gaze to the aforementioned bucket, which still sat by the hearth. “Just give me one moment.”
Aramis was still coaxing a mostly-unconscious Athos to drink his tea, and quite honestly looking a good deal worse than the man in the bed as he did so. That decided it for D’Artagnan, who swung his legs over the side of the bed. It would be hard going, but there were enough things he could grab onto between his bed, the bucket, and Porthos’s bed to steady him, and if not, D’Artagnan was sure he could hop on one leg for a bit. His balance was good enough.
He maneuvered himself to standing by using the bedframe. There was pain in his leg of course, but that pain had been there even when he was lying down, and he wasn’t even sure standing had worsened it at all. D’Artagnan grabbed for the wall a bit ahead of him and took a jump, but failed to anticipate how much the jolting impact would send shockwaves through his injured leg despite it not touching anything. He grimaced, and could not bite back his moan.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” Aramis shouted.
“Getting the bucket,” he ground back through gritted teeth. He tried for another small hop, but he was sweating now, the pain almost unbearable, and black dotted his vision.
D’Artagnan lost track of how long he stood there, breathing heavily and willing himself not to collapse, but a hand appeared, warm and steadying at his back.
“Drink this for the pain,” Aramis said in his ear, “and I’ll help you back to bed.”
D’Artagnan accepted the cup without question and threw back the bitter liquid in one gulp. He leaned heavily on Aramis as the man half-dragged him back to his bed, all of his limbs progressively leaden and uncooperative, and fell into unconsciousness just as soon as he was lying down once more.
***************
D’Artagnan blinked sluggishly back to awareness, feeling as though he’d swum through molasses and was just trying to break the surface. His head lolled to the side as his thoughts came trudging back to him, and he saw that the floor beside Porthos’s bed had been cleaned and the bucket replaced after all.
He sought out Aramis next, who was watching him from his chair. “You drugged me,” he mumbled, tongue still slow and heavy.
“You were due for another round of your pain draught soon anyway.” Aramis pitched forward with a sneeze. Sniffling and palming his throat, Aramis winced and strained painfully to swallow in the aftermath, the motion taking far more time and energy than it should have.
D’Artagnan took a breath and reminded himself that strangling the man would do his sore throat no favors. “You need to tell them,” he said firmly.
Aramis laughed airily. “That I gave you a dose slightly early so you wouldn’t hobble off again and damage yourself further? I don’t think so.”
D’Artagnan’s mouth did not so much as twitch. “Aramis.”
The humor bled from Aramis’s face as he sighed, congested. “Why? I can’t think of a single reason why they need to know.”
“Because we don’t hide things from each other, Aramis,” D’Artagnan said simply. “You know that.”
“It isn’t hiding if it never comes up! It will only make things harder for me, as you’re doing right now. Each of you should only be worrying about getting better yourselves, not worrying about me as well.”
“You don’t get to make that decision for us!”
“What do you want me to say, D’Artagnan?” Aramis cried in a rare display of temper. But as quickly as it had come, it fled from him, leaving him somehow more deflated and weary than he had been before. “Yes, I’m sick. I’m tired, I’m achy, I have a fever, my head is pounding, my throat is killing me, I keep sneezing, and I can hardly see straight. But I’m not the priority right now. Someone has to care for all of you, and I can do it. So just let me.”
Aramis went to the worn journal that lay open on the table near the door. D’Artagnan knew from experience it was there he kept notes of what tinctures he had given and when, observations of wounds and swellings as the days progressed, jotted bits and pieces of passing knowledge he heard from traveling physicians. D’Artagnan craned his neck to watch as Aramis scribbled a few notes, before scrunching his nose against his wrist.
He sneezed twice more, sniffling and shaking his head briefly before writing a few more sentences and laying down his quill. He moved toward D’Artagnan’s bed, but he had hardly taken a step before he wobbled precariously, legs trembling.
Aramis clamped a hand over his eyes and moaned softly. After a few shaky seconds, he changed course and dropped back into his chair with another moan, his face ghostly pale and cheeks flushed scarlet. He reclined his head against the wall.
“Aramis,” D’Artagnan said, feeling his own chest grow tight with worry. “You need to lie down.”
Aramis’s hand dropped to his lap, but his eyes were still shut tight, his voice thin and tired. “I can’t exactly physically do that, now can I?”
D’Artagnan blinked. “What?”
“Look around, D’Artagnan.” His eyes cracked open. “There are only three beds in this room.”
“So where have you been sleeping?”
Aramis patted the chair, and though it had been the answer D’Artagnan was expecting, it did nothing to stifle his cry of horror.
“Aramis!”
“It’s easier this way, anyway, in case one of you needs something,” he said placatingly. “Quick access.”
D’Artagnan thought a moment, then scooted until his back was flush with the wall, and patted the newly vacated space on his mattress. “Come lie down beside me, then. It will be just like sharing a pack while we camp.”
It was Aramis’s turn to look horrified. “No,” he said with a sniffle and a rub at his nose. “You don’t want to catch this.”
“So it is bad, then?”
“Your body is under enough stress as it is, trying to heal your leg. It doesn’t need to add anything else to the mix.”
“We’ll switch places, then. Help me to the chair, and then you take my place and lie down.” Aramis opened his mouth, but D’Artagnan cut him off before he could begin speaking. “Don’t argue. It’ll be good for me to be upright for a little bit.” When the man still looked extremely perturbed at the prospect, D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “Aramis, I’ll be in a chair , not sparring.”
Aramis shook his head. “I can’t be in your bed. You still might fall ill that way.”
“Can you take an infection just by using the same bedclothes?”
“Why else do you think they burn them after a patient has died of plague?”
“We’ll ask the innkeeper for new ones,” D’Artagnan promised. “We have hours yet before nightfall, we’ll think of something.” The man still made no move to rise, and at this point, D’Artagnan was not above begging like a child. “Please, Aramis, just lie down and rest.”
Aramis hunched forward like a marionette with its strings cut. “Alright.”
He helped D’Artagnan out of the bed again, fussing at nearly each breath D’Artagnan took. “I’m fine, Aramis,” he assured him truthfully. “The pain draught is still working well.”
With Aramis’s aid, he hobbled to the chair, and the movement this time went much more smoothly. He sank into the chair with a contented sigh, and just so Aramis could not misconstrue the exhalation as a noise of pain, he was sure to add, “It feels nice to be sitting for a change.”
Once Aramis was satisfied that D’Artagnan was not lying and would not, indeed, spontaneously break the rest of the bones in his body merely by virtue of not lying down, Aramis went to lie down himself. He made a noise, half-moan and half-sigh, that sounded so relieved as he melted into the bed and into a heap beneath the covers in one fluid motion, that D’Artagnan felt some tension from his own shoulders relax in sympathy.
But Aramis’s relief was short lived; though he looked half asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, his body had other plans. His sneezes, one after the other, were completely exhausted, and he coughed wetly in the aftermath, a fit which had him burrowing into the blanket as he shivered and tried to regain control of himself. He sounded absolutely miserable, and D’Artagnan wished he could rub his back, knowing how much Aramis craved physical touch as comfort.
Aramis groaned once the fit had stopped, the sound hoarse and crackling. “Now you definitely need new bedsheets.”
“Yes, Aramis,” D’Artagnan said, doing his best to keep the note of exasperation from his voice. “We’ll sort it, don’t worry. Just sleep .”
But the instruction proved a bit supercilious, as the room filled with the congested snores the instant D’Artagnan had finished speaking. He smiled to himself, and settled into the chair for a bit of a vigil of his own.