Chapter Text
"I’m sorry, old friend.”
Aramis had meant it -- to the furthermost depths of his soul, he had meant it. He hated that it had been his bullet that killed his friend, but... Equally, he was relieved.
Marsac was done--with running, with guilt...with life. He wanted to die; he wanted me to kill him. He wasn’t subtle about it; either in his words or in his actions, when he said it ended there and then purposely misaimed his shot at me, Aramis told himself.
So, Aramis had obliged his old friend. He had killed him, and it grieved him to have done it. Yet, had it been anyone else, they wouldn't have held him as he died or looked him in the eye and allowed him to call himself a musketeer. No, as bitter as the end was, there could have been no better outcome, he reminded himself.
Marsac died a musketeer, Aramis thought, proudly. Perhaps, I could have tried harder; perhaps I could have talked him down, found a way to disarm him, something....something that would have saved his life, but the reprieve would only have been temporary, and it would have deprived him of that honor.
“Marsac’s spirit died in that forest in Savoy, five years ago. Just took this long for his body to catch up.”
Aramis had meant that, as well. He wondered, sometimes, if his own had also died there. Am I just a ghost, masquerading as a living man? Playing a part until my body finally catches up to my spirit?
The thought spun around his mind, and suddenly, Aramis stopped walking. He couldn’t face the garrison; he couldn’t face his brothers – their concern, their sympathy... their belief that he was alive.
But I am alive! He reminded himself, and just as abruptly needed to be with his brothers, to see the concern in the eyes, to receive their sympathetic pats...to feel their assurance that he was not a ghost.
Yet, the previous thought still lingered, warring with the latter and leaving him paralyzed with indecision. Thus, he stood, stock still, in the middle of the street -- oblivious to the glances of the people dashing past as they sought shelter from the rain; oblivious to the rain itself. It dripped off his cloak and the hat still held in his hand. It dripped, too, from his hair, down his back. It ran in rivulets down his leathers and into his boots. It splashed against his face and chest, meandering down until the inside of his shirt was as wet as the outside of his cloak.
“Aramis?” a voice called, but he was oblivious to that, as well.
“Aramis!” the voice called, again, and hand touched his shoulder. Aramis started slightly as the touch brought him back to awareness. Then, he winced, as much at the depth of the concern in d’Artagnan’s eyes, as the amount of rain dripping off the front of the cloak the young man had pulled over his head.
“Aramis, come inside!” d’Artagnan insisted, with a tug on his arm. “You’re soaked through! And I will be, too, if we’re out here much longer...”
Aramis followed, more out of habit than conscious choice, and realized, with the abruptness with which his thoughts seemed to flow at moment, that he’d stopped near the well that stood outside Bonacieux’s.
“Come on!” Constance urged from the doorway, before making way for d’Artagnan to dash inside. Quickening his pace, Aramis soon slipped past her, as well, to stand dripping in her kitchen.
“Don’t just stand there making a puddle on my floor!” Constance scolded, pulling out a chair for him, and then, when he didn’t move, taking him by the hand and pulling him over to it. “Sit!” she insisted. “No, wait!” she added, before he could move. “Hat! Cloak!” she demanded, holding her hand out for both. “Then that soggy uniform, if you please. You’ve already soaked my floor; no need to soak the furniture, as well.”
Aramis complied, numbly. Handing over his hat and cloak, he started at the ties of his leathers, as Constance’s voice streamed on in the background.
“And why weren’t you wearing this?” she demanded, as she hung his hat beside the door. "It does your head no good when it's in your hand." Without waiting for a response, she continued on in a low murmur, “Don’t know what you were thinking! Catch your death, you will.” Then, her voice rose again as she insisted, “Here, let me! We’ll never get you out of those wet clothes at that rate.”
It was then that Aramis realized his cold fingers weren’t making much progress. I suppose I must be solid, else she couldn’t be stripping off my leathers, Aramis mused, as her hands made quick work of the ties and catches. Yet, my mind has grown so foggy all the sudden, I wonder if perhaps I’m not really an spirit about to fade into mist now that I've sent Marsac into the arms of our brothers.
“There we are,” announced Constance, and he registered the loss of the leathers' comforting solidity. “Now, sit!” she insisted, all but shoving him down into the chair. “Let’s get those boots off you, too. I dread to think about the state of your stockings.”
“Thank you, madame, I can manage,” Aramis insisted, chivalry clearing the fog in his brain a bit as he realized that Constance intended to remove his boots for him.
“You’d better dump the water outside so they can dry,” Constance instructed d’Artagnan, as the boots slowly came off and were passed along, “and then fetch a dry shirt and a blanket, would you?” Murmuring to herself, she added, “Those trousers aren’t too wet, I think. Come on, let’s sit you nearer the fire and get you warmed up, and we just might stop you catching the chill you deserve for standing out in the rain like a simpleton.”
Then, she was pulling him up, and it seemed to Aramis that he’d wandered back into the fog--or perhaps it was a dream--as he let her guide him nearer the fire and push him down into another chair. The warmth seemed to thicken the fog until Constance’s voice seemed more the murmur of a fast-moving stream than a person, and he drifted, contentedly, as her skirts swirled and eddied around him. Until...
“Come on, Aramis!” a voice prodded, as a hand lightly shook his shoulder, rousing him enough to glance up into d’Artagnan’s concerned, yet exasperated, expression. “Seeing you standing out there in the rain has put Constance in a mothering mood, so don't think she won't march over here and demand you put your arms up so she can change that shirt for you.”
Belatedly, Aramis realized his friend had dropped a dry shirt into his lap, and he fumbled with his wet one, as the threat of Constance changing him like a child sank into his muddled brain. It took more effort than he thought it ought, but as Aramis finally managed to pull the dry shirt over his head, before d’Artagnan’s jumped in to tug it down for him.
“Here, let me,” d’Artagnan’s offered, his eyes canting in Constance’s direction as he tugged the shirt down for Aramis, before wrapping a soft blanket around his shoulders. “There, that should do it,” he murmured, with final pat of on the shoulder, before ambling off to find his own cozy seat, leaving Aramis to sink back into his comfortable fog.
He had just begun drifting quite contentedly when a knock startled him back to awareness, yet again. Aramis bit back a curse at the disruption, but righted himself in the chair, all the same, and shifted to better see the door.
“Not you two, as well!” he heard Constance grumble as she shifted to make way for Athos and Porthos to enter. “Do none of you have enough sense to get in out of the rain?”
“We beg your pardon, Madame Bonacieux,” Athos offered, with a slight bow. “Once the Captain returned, we had hoped Aramis would soon follow. But when he did not, we thought it prudent to go in search of him and thought perhaps d’Artagnan might be of assistance,“ he explained, before casting his eyes on Aramis. Raising a brow at the sight of him, Athos added, wryly, “I see, now, it was unnecessary.”
“Well, as you're here now, you may as well make yourselves comfortable,” Constance huffed. “At least until the rain lets up. One of you chilled through is quite enough, I should think.”
Aramis let himself slump back down into his pleasant fog as the new arrivals bustled around, divesting themselves of hats and cloaks and finding comfortable spots by the fire in which to settle.
“He’s more asleep than not,” Porthos murmured, ruffling Aramis’s damp curls as he passed. “Hope he wakes up when the rain stops. He’s heavier than he looks, he is,” he added with a chuckle, as he warmed his hands before the hearth.
Not quite drifting enough yet to be oblivious, Aramis considered objecting to the notion that he might need to be carried, but the thought of speaking seemed so...laborious, and, besides, I cannot be a fading spirit if Porthos is concerned about the weight of me. So he let it slide, and settled for instead on enjoying the pleasant buzz of voices as Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan chattered with each other.
“The Cardinal...” he thought he heard somewhere along the stream of words, and wondered briefly if he should rouse enough to actually listen. There’s usually something dire in the works when his name comes up, Aramis mused. I should probably be paying attention.
Yet, even that task seemed too laborious at the moment, so Aramis quickly dismissed the thought and drifted away again. He managed, this time, to find a nice, gently current in which to float so contentedly that he hardly noticed when, sometime later—could have been days or minutes...it’s all the same, Aramis surmised dreamily—a hand pressed against his forehead.
“Constance,” said a voice from far away. “Should he be this warm?”
Aramis wondered, who is warm, and how warm is “this warm”, and why is “this warm” bad? He was certain that it was bad, though, for the tone of the distant voice had been anxious. I should wake up and find out why it’s anxious,” he told himself, but then wondered if he even could anymore. His brain seemed no longer encased by the fog, but to be a part of it. I think perhaps I am a ghost, afterall, and, now that my task is done, my body HAS faded away, he decided, though he couldn’t quite muster the energy to be concerned about it.
Another, smaller hand replaced the large hand pressed to his forehead.
“Oh, bother,” a softer, but still far away voice cursed. “I knew he’d catch a chill...standing out in the rain like that...drenched to the bone...what was he thinking!” it muttered in one long, continuous stream. Then, a gentle, but louder voice began prodding, “Aramis? Can you wake up for me now, please?”
No, he thought, because he didn’t at all want to wake. Besides, what point is there in waking when I’ll be nothing but a wisp of smoke soon, anyway. But the gentle voice was kind and patient, and most definitely female, and the gentleman in him insisted that he must, therefore, oblige.
“That’s it,” the gentle voice encouraged, as he struggled to convince his heavy eyelids to open.
“Constance?” Aramis queried, as his will won the battle, and his eyes squinted open to find a familiar face smiling up patiently.
“Mmm,” she murmured in confirmation. “You’ve managed to catch yourself a fever,” she told him in a slow, calm voice.
Aramis’s brow furrowed with his attempt to comprehend her words. How can I have a fever when I’m hardly more than mist?
“Aramis? Are you with me?” Constance prodded, before glancing to Athos, who’d knelt down beside her to peer into Aramis’s face.
“Aramis?” Athos tried, and Aramis frowned a little at the concern in his voice.
The frown deepened as Athos reached up to press a hand to his forehead, and Aramis remembered, vaguely—almost as though he’d dreamed it—other hands pressing against his forehead. I must still be solid, after all, he realized.
“Aramis,” he heard again, and this time managed a murmured, “hmmm.”
“Ah, there you are,” Athos replied, dryly, tossing him a concerned sort of half smile.
Aramis smiled back, tiredly, but it fell away, as he asked, “I’m really here, right?”
Athos brow furrowed in concern as he glanced over his shoulder to Porthos, who answered, “Of course you’re here, brother. You thinking of wandering off somewhere else?”
Aramis followed the voice until he met Porthos’s eyes, to whom he said, “I thought perhaps my body had gone to catch up to my spirit, but… I’m still solid? I’m still here, right? Still alive…not a ghost…”
Porthos and Athos shared a worried frown, before Porthos attempted a smile, as he responded, “Definitely still solid…a little too solid, perhaps, if I’m gonna have to carry you off to bed.”
Aramis smiled, wanly. “Good. Not ready to join my spirit yet…” he murmured, letting his eyes close as he started to drift away.
“Aramis?” Constance prodded, though, and he sighed, wearily, before pushing his eyes open again. “I think, perhaps, it would be best if you just sleep here, in d’Artagnan’s bed, rather than wander back out into the damp air to get back to your own, all right?”
A short squawk from above him told Aramis that someone objected to the plan, but the effort of waking and talking had been too exhausting for Aramis himself to object.
“Aramis?” Constance pressed, and he realized he’d closed his eyes again, instead of nodding, as he’d intended. He tried again and managed a weak nod. “Good, good. All right, then, let’s get you tucked into bed,” she murmured, then paused, and Aramis wondered if she’d decided to have pity on him and leave him be. It was not to be, though, as, after a moment, she asked, “Can you manage it, do you think?”
Manage what? Aramis wondered, his brow furrowing as he tried to concentrate on the question.
“Aramis?” Constance prodded, again, her voice more urgent than it had been a moment before. “Perhaps the three of you should shift him to the bed, instead,” she added, though her voice had begun to grow distant again.
Three of you... Aramis mused, dreamily, before it clicked in his brain, and he groaned to himself. He then groaned, low, but out loud, as he peeled his eyes open once more and fixed them on Constance, who had stepped away.
“No, no,” he huffed, breathlessly. “I can manage it!” I’m certainly not going to be carried off and tucked into bed like a child.
Aramis could feel Porthos and Athos, and Constance, too, hovering around him as he pushed himself up, but he ignored them in favor of focusing on the task. He was pleased when he managed it with only the slightest wobble at the end.
“I can manage,” he growled, as Porthos reached for his arm when he began shuffling, droopily, toward the bedroom.
“All right, then,” Constance huffed with relief. “D’Artagnan grab a few more pillows, will you? He’ll rest easier if he’s sitting up a bit, I think,” she instructed, as she tagged along behind.
Aramis was concentrating too much on his feet to notice if d’Artagnan complied, or not. Yet, as he eased himself onto the bed, at last—it had seemed to take a ridiculously amount of time, considering the distance—Aramis found a stack of pillows waiting for him, and settled down into them with a blissful sigh.
“No, no, don’t go back sleep yet,” Constance insisted, and he prodded his eyes open again to stare at her balefully. She replied with an apologetic smile, smoothing back his curls. “I’ve started some tea, and I want you to drink a cup before you sleep. I’m just going to go fetch it now. Can you stay awake for me, just for that long?”
No, he decided, but the earnest worry in her eyes made him nod, all the same. Forcing his head off the pillows, Aramis noticed his brothers had all settled around the room in various spots and were staring at him with unguarded worry…except for d’Artagnan, whose expression seemed as much vexation as concern.
“What’s the matter?” Aramis asked, almost managing a proper smile, at the guilty look that flashed in d’Artagnan’s eyes. “Come on, out with it,” he pressed, when his young friend turned suddenly bashful.
“I was just thinking,” he confessed, in a low, embarrassed tone, “about the unfairness of ending up on the floor when I’m the one paying for the bed.”
“And you’ll be paying double for that,” Constance grumbled, tossing a disapproving scowl at her lodger as she came back into the room with a carefully balanced cup of tea. “Friend’s burning up with fever and all he’s worried about is his rent…,” she muttered, darkly, under her breath, as she passed.
“I’m worried about Aramis, too,” d’Artagnan responded, his tone somewhere between defensive and apologetic. “I just wish he weren’t in my bed, that’s all.”
“You’re welcome to join me,” Aramis offered, tossing him a quick smile, before reaching for the cup Constance seemed intent upon holding for him. He is right about bringing out her motherly nature, he decided, as her hands hovered over his, seemingly only barely resisting the desire to let him try to feed himself. He was pleased, though, when he managed, as exhausting as it was, to down the whole cup without assistance. His hand dropped heavily back to the bed when he was done. Too wearied to worry either about the final disposition of the cup, or Constance’s feelings, Aramis’s grimaced at the aftertaste.
Constance, though, only chuckled. “It’s not the best tasting—that’s the fault of the yarrow and thyme—but the honey and chamomile made it not so bad as that, I’m certain. Besides, it’ll do you more good than bleeding, or whatever else a physician might do to you.”
“My apologies, dear madame,” Aramis offered, sleepily. “I thank you for both the tea and your kind hospitality,” he just managed to add as he drifted off.
oOoOoOoOoOo
Aramis meandered awake much more slowly than he had drifted off. He wandered in a dreamy half-sleep for a fair amount of time, letting the warmth of the room lull him whenever he drew too near consciousness. But, eventually, the sound of snoring and the weight of the hand resting heavily on his chest began to pull at his awareness, dragging him further and further from his comfortable haze, until, at last, he pushed his eyes open.
It was impossible to tell the hour from where he lay. It must be late, though, he thought, as he caught sight of d’Artagnan sleeping in a chair by the dwindling fire, his head fallen back against the wall. A loud, truncated snore brought his gaze, next, to Porthos, who’d apparently been startled awake by Aramis’s change of state.
“Hey,” Porthos murmured through a yawn as he lifted his head enough to notice Aramis’s gaze.
“Hey,” Aramis replied, before bringing a hand up to where Porthos’s lay on his chest and raising an eyebrow.
Porthos shrugged. “I thought maybe it would be easier to remember that you’re solid and alive if you could feel me touching you.”
Aramis ducked his head self-consciously.
“Hey, none of that now,” Porthos consoled. “We all have our ghosts, remember…”
Aramis raised his head enough to smile appreciatively at his friend, but settled for patting Porthos’s hand in appreciation rather than speaking. He was still so very tired…
Fortunately, Athos padded quietly in the room just then, distracting both before any further words were required. Aramis raised an eyebrow, in lieu of asking where his friend had been.
“Just off filling in Treville,” Athos announced in low tones, then smiled at the mortified look Aramis tossed him. “Feeling better, I see,” he remarked, with a wry chuckle. “You must be if you have the strength for that expression.”
Aramis made face, but let the remark slide, otherwise, for fear that another attempt at speaking would sap what little strength he’d regained with sleep.
“Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that you’ll be stuck with us a while…” Athos grinned as Aramis made another face at him. “Or perhaps not,” he murmured, before continuing, “In appreciation for putting the regiment on the Cardinal’s good side, for once, Treville has given us a few days off to tend your miserable self.”
This is a story I HAVE to remember to ask about when I have the strength for it, Aramis mused. But rather than ask about it now, he mustered his strength enough to remark, with a good-hearted scowl, “Bunch of lazy shirks… It’s just a bit of a chill; doesn’t rate one nursemaid looking after me, let alone four.”
Porthos laughed, giving him a thump on the chest for good measure. “Looks like you’ve got us, all the same!”
Looks like I do, Aramis thought. And you’ve got me, he added, a smile creeping onto his face as he drifted back into sleep.