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“You planning on tucking me in?” Porthos asked, as Aramis followed him into his room and closed the door. Setting aside his gear, Porthos shrugged out of his uniform, before turning a chair to face his friend and dropping down into it.
Aramis quirked his head and smiled in weary amusement. “Nothing so extravagant as that, my friend. I would simply like to have a look at my fine needlework one last time,” he replied. “We have had a bit of excitement today; I’d like to be certain all is still as it should be.”
Porthos hesitated a moment, and then nodded, too weary to debate the necessity of it.
“I’ll be quick about it,” Aramis assured with another smile, this time an appreciative one. “I won’t even make you strip out of that shirt.” The last favor was decided as Aramis watched his friend’s head droop sleepily. We let him do too much today. Between the loss of blood, the pain, and the ghosts dredged up by Bonnaire, Porthos is beyond exhausted, he judged, then admitted, I certainly am, and my day was easy by comparison. His mind drifted then to his own ache, and he hesitated. Perhaps, I should just let him be.
Ordinarily, Aramis would have trusted the skill of his needlework--and Porthos’s strength--and left the man alone to collapse into bed, but the wound had been life threatening. On top of that, Porthos had already torn the stitches once and had, most certainly, been sufficiently busy since to have done so again.
No, I had better be certain, he quickly resolved, striding over to the chair. It would not do to have the wound fester because I was too soft-hearted to pester him. Aramis tugged the sleeve of Porthos’s shirt away so that it slid a little down his shoulder. Then, he eased a finger under the loose bandage, deciding to settle for a peek. If all is well, that is all I will need. If all is not well... He did not bother finishing thought. A bridge to cross if I must...
He smiled as he managed enough of a glimpse to see that the stitches had held. Aramis caressed the skin alongside the wound as he slid he finger out from beneath the bandage. No undue heat or swelling; that is good, he judged, before settling the bandage with a pat and stepping back.
“We good, then?” Porthos’s asked, drowsily.
“We’re good,” Aramis replied. “So let’s get you tucked into bed, then, shall we?” he added, and bit back a chuckle as Porthos turned his head enough to glower at him.
“A hand up is all you get,” Porthos growled. “I’ll manage the rest myself, thank you.”
“As you wish,” Aramis acquiesced laughingly, as he offered his friend a hand and helped ease him to his feet. Porthos shoved away from him as soon as his feet were beneath him, propelling himself toward the bed...and Aramis into the chair, the ache in his back throwing his balance off just enough that he was unable to keep his feet. Hmm...it is not quite comfortable, he acknowledged, as the landing sparked a quick burst of flame in his lower back. Yet as it died back down to a dull, throbbing ache, and the weariness in legs objected to the passing thought that he should stand up again and go, he decided, it will do for a few minutes...just long enough to gather the strength to gain my feet.
“You don’t have some prior engagement to get off to?” Porthos asked, as he flopped onto the bed belly first and turned his head to find Aramis still sitting. “I figured you must, with your eagerness to get Bonnaire to Paris.”
Aramis frowned. My eagerness..., he mused, but then comprehension struck. Ah! Because I insisted we go without Athos. “No, my friend,” he answered aloud, “I’ve no prior engagement this evening.” Nor would I be up to it if I did, he added to himself, shifting straighter in the chair as his back twinged unhappily.
Porthos cracked open eyes that had fallen shut and peered at his friend with bewilderment. “Then why’d you want to get back here so bad?”
“I didn’t,” Aramis replied, shrugging. “But Athos clearly had an urgent need to be rid of us, so...”
The puzzlement in Porthos’s expression increased. “So...wasn’t that all the more reason to wait for him?”
Aramis laughed and conceded, “Perhaps. But had it been me, forced to revisit my past with the lot of you looking over my shoulder, I think perhaps I would have wished to be rid of everyone, as well.” Porthos frowned. “We all have things in our past that we’re loath to remember, let alone share...”
Porthos’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer, then with a grunted, “Yeah,” he let his eyes slip closed again.
“Besides, there was too much alcohol available there.”
Porthos ‘s eyes didn’t open again, but he raised an eyebrow at this, provoking an amused smile as Aramis admitted, “Bonnaire was handful enough with four of us; down to three still fit and fine, I don’t think we could have managed both of you in your cups and him.”
Porthos pushed his eyes open at this, but Aramis interrupted before he could object, “ You might have dealt with the pain all right without a bottle, or kept from killing Bonnaire, but managing both at the same time, while being forced to sit and watch Athos brood... ” He shrugged, and Porthos sighed his agreement of Aramis’s assessment. “Especially with...” Aramis started to say, but then stopped himself. Porthos didn’t know about his sore back, and he wasn’t about to complain to a man who had taken an ax to the shoulder about a niggling little thing like that.
Porthos’s eyes had fixed on him, though. “Especially with what?”
“Especially with your own ghosts making an appearance,” Aramis deflected. “No, it was better that we get on with things, and let Athos do what he needed to do on his own.”
“Hmph,” Porthos grunted, frowning at the answer but too weary to press the matter. His eyes sliding shut, his displeasure melted away into sleep.
Aramis smiled wanly, pleased that his friend had finally given in to his exhaustion. I should do the same, he told himself. Just have to get out of this chair first... As weary as his legs were, sitting again seemed to fan the dull ache in his back into a flame. The fire was not quite hot enough yet, though, to force him into action, and he decided, I’ll just close my eyes for a moment...
oOoOoOoOoOoOo
Aramis roused back to wakefulness with a grimace as the fire in his back surged into an inferno, raging across his flank and down into his hips. He looked around blearily, unable to quite place himself until his gaze fell on Porthos. The big man had rolled away from him, onto his uninjured side, sufficiently untroubled by his wound to be snoring soundly. There was no way to tell, though, how long either of them had been asleep.
Long enough to grow stiff, that’s for certain, Aramis acknowledged with a sigh. He dreaded the thought of trying to stand now. It’ll be worse for me in the morning if I stay in this chair, though, he reminded himself, and considered, just for a moment, simply sliding onto the floor to sleep. No, he sighed to himself, thinking better of it. Porthos will only worry if he wakes up to find me sprawled on his floor, and that won’t do. He has his own injury to deal with.
Resolved, Aramis sucked in a deep breath, bit his lip to stifle any gasps or moans, and pushed himself upright—well, almost upright. Much to his chagrin, he found himself stooped over like some worn out old man. Aramis’s gaze wandered over to the bed, as he let out his breath, and he smiled a little in relief that Porthos had not woken to witness the event. I may indeed be getting too old for all this, but I don’t need him rubbing it in, he thought, ruefully, and refocused on his feet as he shuffled slowly toward the door.
At least I slept long enough that the garrison will all be in their beds; I don’t need think I care for any other witnesses to my old age, either, he mused with irritation, unwilling in his weariness to cut himself slack for what he was certain could not be more than a minor bit of bruising.
Aramis nearly toppled himself as he pulled open the door, but managed to hobble out and close it again without waking Porthos. Thus, he rested his head against the door in relief. It was a short-lived sentiment, though, for as he pushed away from the door and turned toward his own room, he spotted a figure seated at the table below.
Athos. He sighed softly. He had hoped his friend would shake off the demons his visit home had awoken by the time he returned to Paris. Clearly, he has not.
Aramis halted at the head of the stairs. Going down there is going to hurt – a lot, he acknowledged with a grimace. Yet, Athos is brooding here, rather than with a bottle in privacy of his own room. If he’s looking for a shoulder rather than a bottle, how can I call myself his friend and brother if I do not offer mine?
Sucking in a breath to steel his resolve yet again this day, Aramis gripped the balustrade tightly. He breathed his deep breath out; another, in, then bit his lip and began his slow, hobbling way down the stairs. Please, do not let him hear me and turn. The last thing he needs is to be worrying about some trifling stiffness rather than clearing his head.
He let out a sigh of relief as he reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped onto level ground without notice. He mentally kicked himself promptly after as the soft sound brought Athos’s head up, and he turned. Smiling to hide a grimace, Aramis straightened and bobbed his head in greeting. “Athos.”
Athos returned the greeting with a nod before turning back to gaze contemplatively at the table once more. Aramis bit back his relief at this, letting his shoulders stoop once more as he shuffled to the table. The thought of sitting, and then having to rise again, nearly brought tears to his eyes, so he settled instead for leaning one arm nonchalantly (he hoped) on the table.
“You’re up late,” he remarked to Athos.
Athos ghosted a smile as he replied, “Pot, kettle.”
Aramis chuckled. “Yes, but in my defense, I fell asleep chatting with Porthos and was then headed to my own bed. You?
Athos frowned, and for a moment Aramis doubted he’d say much more, but then...
“I made it to my bed, but then a bottle started calling me,” Athos confessed. Aramis quirked his head, but said nothing. “I thought to drink it, but then I saw d’Artagnan’s face as he nearly got himself killed dragging my drunk ass out of my burning house last night and thought perhaps I shouldn’t drink it.”
Aramis raised an eyebrow. That is a tale that will need telling, he mused, but continued to say nothing aloud.
“And then I realized,” Athos continued, “that what I really needed was to do some thinking, rather than to dull my thoughts and lull myself into sleep.”
“And that brought you here?” Aramis asked, intrigued.
Athos shrugged. “It seemed better to remove myself from temptation before I lost my resolve,” he admitted.
Aramis smiled. “Indeed. Should I leave you to your thinking, or would you prefer some company?”
Athos glanced up and stared at him a moment, seemingly undecided, but then patted the bench beside him. “Please. I am lousy company, but if you don’t mind the silence, I wouldn’t mind company that is not a ghost.” His winced at his own words, then, as though he’d given away something he hadn’t intended, and quickly shifted his gaze back to the table.
Aramis said nothing as he eased himself down, intent on doing so as normally as possibly lest his friend notice his infirmity. Sparks flew up his spine and into his hips as he sat, but he stubbornly pushed the pain to the back of his mind as he focused on his friend.
“We all have ghosts, Athos. There is no shame in it,” he assured. Athos glowered at this, and Aramis wondered if the man would counter him. But Athos did not. Instead, his expression softened as he turned to face Aramis.
“You obeyed my order,” he stated.
Aramis’s brow furrowed a moment as he struggled for context. Then, he realized what order Athos spoke of, and he frowned, wondering if Athos, like Porthos, faulted him for leaving the man behind and heading to Paris with Bonnaire.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t,” Athos then stated, easing Aramis’s doubt. “I was afraid...I...” He felt silent then and looked away. Before Aramis could think of something to say to fill the void, Athos spoke again. “Why?”
Aramis raised a brow and asked, uncertainly, “Why...Why did I go ahead without you?”
Athos nodded.
“As I said, we all have ghosts, my friend,” Aramis reiterated. “And I , for one, would not relish being forced to confront my own so abruptly in the middle of a mission, with an audience on hand to witness it.”
Athos turned at this, met his gaze, and nodded. “Thank you.”
Aramis nodded in reply, and then his own gaze fell to the table as he pondered the difficulty of rising again now that Athos seemed ready to dismiss him. Beside him, Athos rose, and Aramis bit back a sigh, knowing he could not delay much longer. But then, to his surprise, his friend shifted to his other side and grabbed hold of his arm.
“Here, let me help you,” Athos insisted, and Aramis glanced up. His friend smiled knowingly. “I’m sober at the moment, remember,” he quipped, raising an eyebrow. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice that you can hardly walk?” Aramis grimaced, as Athos continued. “You barely made it down on your own, so unless you intend to stay the night here, you had better let me help you back up again.”
Aramis did not bite back his sigh this time. In fact, he made a conscious effort to make it sound as put-upon as possible, but Athos only smirked at it, and so he acquiesced. Using the table for support and with Athos’s steadying hold, Aramis eased to his feet more easily than he’d expected. He intended to straighten, not quite willing to stoop in front of an audience, but Athos pulled an arm over his shoulder before Aramis could manage it.
Aramis glanced up, intended to object, but the look in Athos’s eyes stopped him. Aramis couldn’t quite define what it was – affection, exasperation, concern, relief, they all seem to be swirling there, he mused, but then decided, even my pride is too tired for much more tonite. If Athos can forego a bottle in favor of a shoulder, it would seem the least I can do to accept his when offered. Leaning on his friend, he let Athos take charge as they made their way slowly to Aramis’s room. He tried to disentangle when they reached the door, but Athos merely tightened his grip.
“I’m a grown man, my friend. I’m certain I can tuck myself into bed,” Aramis huffed, wearily, ignoring the echo of Porthos that sounded in his mind.
“I am sure you can,” Athos replied neutrally, “just as I am certain that you’ll simply fall into bed fully clothed and hope to feel better on the morrow.” He raised an eyebrow, challenging Aramis to dispute the statement. Aramis, however, simply dropped his head and began divesting himself of weapons, belt and sash.
Athos stood aside and let him manage on his own, until it came time to strip off his uniform. Then, Aramis found his friend’s hand pulling off the uniform before he had a chance to even attempt it. Once finished, those same hands were guiding him to the bed and offering support as he eased himself down. He started to bend, thinking to remove his boots, but Athos’s hands stopped him.
Kneeling down, Athos tugged the boots off with surprising gentleness, before peering up at Aramis. “Do you need help turning onto your belly?” he asked, his tone neutral.
Aramis shook his head, before replying. “I can manage.”
Athos hovered as he settled, then Aramis felt hands pushing up his shirt and heard a whistle. “That good, is it?” he quipped.
Athos chuckled ruefully, before replying. “It is certainly an impressive array of color. What happened?”
“Before Porthos was struck down, one of the scoundrels managed to whip me with a chain,” Aramis explained. “I don’t think it did any real damage,” he assured, sleepily. Now that he was settled on his belly, the fire had diminished to an ignorable level, and the last of Aramis’s reserves seemed to flicker out with it. “Just a little stiff and bruised...”
Athos clucked under his breath, before replying, “I’ll say...” He paused, and Aramis could feel his hand hovering over his back.
“Don’t!” he huffed, turning his head a little to glare at the man. Athos raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t touch it! Leave it be and let me sleep!”
Athos smiled a wan half-smile as he raised his hands in surrender and backed away. Aramis closed his eyes then and drifted in semi-awareness as the door open and closed. It opened and closed again sometime later, but he had drifted deeply enough by then not to notice, until a cold weight sent a flare of pain surging through his flank. “Aaay!” he cried, arching up, but Athos hands quickly pressed him down again.
“Peace, Aramis,” he placated, as Aramis pinned him with another glare. “It is only a little ice,” Athos explained. “You’ll thank me for it when you try to get out of bed tomorrow.”
Aramis considered tossing the bundle of ice back at his friend, but a stern glower from Athos had him thinking better of it. He’s right, anyway, he admitted to himself, but huffed, all the same, before turning his head away. He turned it back again, though, as he heard Athos’s steps shuffle away from bed, but did not hear the door open again.
“You staying?” he asked, sleepily, when he found Athos settled on the floor a few feet away.
“Might as well,” Athos yawned in reply. “Too tired to think anymore, no alcohol in your room to tempt me, and none of my ghosts will think to find me here, so...”
Athos yawned again, a jaw-cracking yawn that made Aramis smile as he said, “Good night, then.”
“Good night,” came a drowsy reply from the floor.
A moment later, two voices whispered in unison, “Thank you!”
The end.