Chapter Text
It is no secret amongst the garrison that Aramis struggles to grasp a good night’s sleep. The quality of his rest usually depends on a variety of variables; the season, how full their day of duty has been and whether or not he has had more reason than usual to reflect on his past on the particular day in question. It is also no secret that if he is sleeping, he should not be woken.
There have been precious cadets who have not managed to receive a warning in time, and received a bloody nose for their troubles. Even a select few who chose not to heed the warnings from the other inseparables, and gone ahead to try and wake the Musketeer. They did not do it again afterwards. Poor Lemay had his work cut out for him that evening.
Today, the garrison is buzzing with its usual evening chatter, the warmth of the mess hall lighting spilling out into the empty courtyard. At a table tucked into the corner, Aramis is slumped against the wooden surface; fingers still loosely gripped at a wine chalice. His eyes are closed, and dark eyelashes cast little shadows against rosy cheekbones.
It is Athos who is the first to approach him, silently assessing his brother’s sleeping stance. Ever so gently removing the chalice from his hand, and setting it aside out of the way. Taking a moment to work out what kind of a sleep Aramis is in… Although, if it’s a light slumber the other would usually have jumped up at the smallest touch by now. Taking this fact into account, Athos concludes that it is a deeper sleep. With the thought in his mind he slowly raises an outstretched hand, fingers brushing underneath the dark curls falling across the other’s forehead. Holding his fingers there only for a moment, and withdrawing with a soft exhale of breath.
Glancing around him for a moment, he decides it best not to create any kind of a scene. An unpredictable, fast asleep Aramis on a Wednesday evening does not need provoking through being woken. Perhaps a little while later. Instead, Athos will take a seat at the table opposite him; propping his feet up on a stool, and preparing himself for a long night. Nobody will bother them, for that much he knows.
It is not all too long until he is joined by Porthos, who takes one glance at his sleeping comrade and takes a seat beside Athos. “As we thought?” He mutters under his breath, not wanting to wake Aramis either.
“Quite,” Athos responds softly.
D’Artagnan is the next to join them at their table, taking a brief look towards Aramis… and, taking a well calculated step backwards. Yes, d’Artagnan was one of over zealous few to go against the warning of Porthos one afternoon when he had not been at the garrison for long. He hasn’t dated to try and wake Aramis since.
“Is be alright?” The gascon asks quietly, resting a hand against his own hip.
Athos gives a brief nod. “As far as I am aware, there is not reason to panic just yet.” He unfolds his arms, the creaking of his leather doublet piercing through the tense silence around them.
The others in the mess hall are beginning to stand and retire to their quarters, as most of the Musketeers will be needed at early morning briefing tomorrow. The King has organised a garden party for a select few noble guests, and they are to arrive just before lunch tomorrow. It will be the job of the Musketeers to ensure that the event is not interrupted, and to keep it running smoothly.
In fact, two hours later and the four inseparables are the only ones left in the room. It’s not too long after that Aramis’ fingers twitch slightly, and he takes a sharp inhale. Very slowly moving to sit, accompanied by a groan and roll of his neck.
“I have an audience, I see,” he mutters. “You know… one of you could have woken me; to save this awful knot in my neck.” Aramis grumbles, bleary eyes watching the other three.
They simply exchange glances with raised eyebrows, and then Athos moves to stand. “I think it is time you ought to rest, my friend.” He offers out a gloved hand toward Aramis, who does not make any effort to take it.
“Did somebody drink my wine?” Aramis’ brow furrows. “Where…” he trails off, picking up his hat.
“Aramis,” Porthos speaks up next. “Better if you go to bed, have some wine tomorrow.”
With a rather unnecessarily heavy sigh, Aramis gets to his feet. Stretching his arms above his head. Blinking the sleep from his eyes. Covering his mouth to hide a yawn. Everyone else stands with him, standing by as if waiting for something to happen.
“I do not need babysitting, as much as I appreciate the company,” Aramis mutters, clearing his throat. “You all ought to get some rest before tomorrow.”
He turns on his heel, giving the other three a small nod. “Goodnight, gentlemen.” Aramis hums, wandering towards the door.
There’s a beat of silence before somebody speaks up, and d’Artagnan looks towards Athos. “Are we… going to follow him?” He asks quietly, an eyebrow quirked upwards.
“Perhaps,” Athos answers simply. “Both of you should get to bed, I will see to it that Aramis does the same.”
Porthos looks as if he may argue against it, but he knows that if anybody is going to get Aramis to listen when he’s being stubborn, it’s Athos. The trio make their way to their quarters, climbing the staircase and quietly bidding one another ‘goodnight.’ It’s quiet, and as far as Athos can hear; there is no sign of Aramis loitering in the corridor. He steps towards the Musketeer’s room, giving a gentle knock against the door.
“Athos,” Aramis’ voice can be heard from inside. There’s a small pause and a light thump of footsteps, before the door is opened. “Have you come to tuck me in?” His signature, mischievous grin is forming; yet the usual spark to his deep brown eyes is clearly missing.
Athos cannot help the slight look of fondness that crosses his features, but the roll of his eyes hides it slightly. “You are feverish, Aramis.” He returns matter of factly, stepping inside the room without waiting to be invited in.
Aramis ignores his statement, wandering over to his bed and taking a seat. Removing the suspenders from his shirt and leaning back slightly. “Have you come to lecture me? You know how I despise such moments,” he grumbles, closing his eyes.
“I have not,” Athos answers. “I am simply here to ensure that you get some rest, and excuse yourself from duty tomorrow.”
A soft chuckle leaves Aramis’ lips, as he moves to lie down. Despite having slept for a few hours at the table, he does feel unusually tired. Perhaps it won’t be so bad to go back to sleep so soon. “Goodnight, Athos.” He exhales slowly, curling up onto his side.
With a sigh of resignation, Athos makes his way back to the door. “Goodnight, Aramis.”