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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.”

Chapter Text

Athos is not at all surprised to see that Aramis has arrived for early briefing prior to both himself and d’Artagnan, who is joining the line beside him at the current moment. A glance is cast towards Aramis by the younger Gascon, and then back toward the man beside him. “Is he really that stubborn?” He mutters quietly, a frown creasing his brow. 

“Oh, he is,” Athos replies under his breath. “As I am sure you will continue to observe throughout your years here.”

There’s a pause, and then d’Artagnan huffs. It’s somewhat endearing that he’s so worked up about Aramis’ well-being, yet Athos keeps quiet. 

“But, it’s the middle of Summer,” d’Artagnan grumbles. 

Athos’ gaze directs sideways, and an eyebrow quirks upwards a little. “Unfortunately for us, ailments do still exist when the sun comes out.” There’s no time for d’Artagnan to respond with something just as witty; as their Captain has made his way into the courtyard. He’ll quietly grumble to himself instead. 

Treville explains their duties for the day and how long they will be attending the garden party. They will each have their guard or patrolling duties, and these will be rotated throughout the day. It’s a simple enough event, and there ought to be barely any disturbances; aside from perhaps a rogue peacock or two. Or maybe a bumblebee chasing Louis… That was an amusing day for everyone. Well, almost. 

Porthos and d’Artagnan have the first shift patrolling the grounds— simply ensuring that there are no intruders and that everything is running safely. Athos and Aramis are positioned at the party itself, amongst some of the others. They are to keep a close eye on their surroundings (and ensure the King is not chased by any flying insects this time around. Aramis still isn’t sure how that was his fault last time, but alas.)

The heat from the sun above them is quite stifling, and even Athos is silently wishing that he were back at the garrison; pouring a rather cool bucket of water over his head. But, instead, he’s lined up in full uniform… Watching the King exchange pleasantries with the nobles of Paris, and sharing little cubes of cheese together. It could be worse, he supposes. He doesn’t actually have to listen to what is being discussed. He imagines it’s rather riveting, of course. 

The Queen looks almost as unimpressed as Athos feels, and after a short while she gets to her feet to briefly converse with Treville. A little while more passes by, and her gaze travels towards Athos. With a subtle tilt of her head to summon him over, he joins both hands behind his back and steps forwards. Wandering across the grass to join her, enjoying the brief respite underneath the shade that the tree branches bring from above them. 

“Your Majesty, is everything alright?” Athos questions, bringing both hands to rest in front of him now that they are stationary. 

She purses her lips for a moment or two, glancing across to where Aramis stands. “Forgive me for questioning one of your fellow Musketeers, Athos… But, Aramis looks as if he may pass out at any second.” Her voice is laced with concern, and Athos finds it rather easy to see why. 

“That is probably because he is,” Athos mutters, briefly clearing his throat during a moment of remembering with whom he is conversing between. “Forgive me, your Majesty. It is hot and—“

“Athos, please. It is quite alright, and I would not have any of you standing in the direct sun were I to have a choice in the matters.” Her gaze drifts back towards Aramis once again, and then quickly towards Athos. “Is he alright?”

Taking a moment to inhale, hold it there, and exhale again. “He took unwell roughly two days back,” he begins to explain. “On the return from our assignment.”

The Queen nods for him to go on, her eyebrows knitted together in a light frown of concern. 

Athos turns to face her, keeping his voice low. “Your Majesty, perhaps it would be possible to create a small. . . Excuse? So as to escort Aramis inside, without drawing attention. Or, playing into his stubbornness.” The last part is muttered even quieter, but the very soft chuckle that leaves the Queen’s lips gives away the fact that she heard it.

She gestures back with a small nod, before walking back towards the Captain. Athos watches on as she quietly converses with him, before turning on her heel once again and returning to his side. “I am feeling rather lightheaded in this heat,” the Queen exhales shakily, her blue eyes gazing across the lawn. “I do believe I’ll need to go and lie down. Could you fetch another Musketeer to help me walk? I can’t quite stand up straight.” She does not make any effort to lower her voice, and Athos can almost feel Aramis’ watchful gaze settled upon them. 

He turns, giving a brief movement of his head to inform Aramis that he’ll need his assistance in escorting the Queen inside the Palace. “Are you alright, your Majesty?” His voice is soft and filled with concern, very carefully reaching to take her arm. 

Thankfully, Louis is much too engrossed in his wine and cheeses to pay too much attention to what has begun to take place a few metres away from him. “I’ll be quite alright once we are out of this awful heat,” she replies gently. “Come, both of you. Help me inside, if you would?”

Athos reaches to take her other arm, and the pair of Soldiers proceed to lead the Queen back into the safe haven of the Palace. She directs them to the guests quarter’s, and into the nearest bedroom. “Here we are.” A small smile gracing her lips. “I feel much better already!” The Queen steps away from their careful grasp, and she looks toward Athos once again. 

They exchange a look of knowingness amongst one another, before Athos steps aside and takes Aramis by the arm instead. “This is for your own good, now please do all of us a favour and lie yourself down.” He mutters close to Aramis’ ear, guiding him over to the mattress. 

If it weren’t for the fact that his mind has already been addled by the Summer day’s heat as well as the slow climbing fever, Aramis may just have argued against the request. Perhaps his inclination to comply also has something to do with the terribly soft gaze the Queen is casting him, her brows furrowed and eyes pooled with worry. Perhaps. Or perhaps not. 

Aramis hastily removes his hat from atop of the mess of curls, before Athos all but shoves him down against the bed. As a matter of fact, he feels a little bad about lying upon such neatly prepared sheets and pillows. But, alas, no time to dwell on such worries now. The elder Musketeers stands above him for just a moment, quietly contemplating his next move to himself; calloused fingers gently tapping against his leather doublet uniform. 

“I will fetch water,” Athos decides aloud. “You need to remove as much clothing as you can— for let us pray that heat exhaustion has not set in yet amongst the fever.” A gentle hand reaches to feel Aramis’ forehead, and he is not at all surprised to find it burning. 

Turning, he is faced momentarily with the Queen… As well as a dilemma he had not previously foreseen, although it is a little too late to concern himself with the matters now. “I can help him undress when I return,” Athos states. “I am awfully sorry for the trouble, your Majesty.” 

She’s quick to form a reassuring smile, accompanied by a small bow of her head. “Do whatever you need to do, Athos. I will help in any way that I can.”

As he leaves towards the bathroom, she makes her way over to the bed. Careful to crouch beside it in a way that does not crease her dress, a gentle hand comes up to hold one of his. “Aramis,” she exhales softly. “You were so inclined to get yourself into all this trouble, just to do your duty?” Anne whispers, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. 

He does not meet her gaze at first, almost afraid of what he might say whilst in a state that is not fully his own. But, Aramis cannot help but silently long to stay here; stay within her arms, or her gentle touch. Anything that she could say or do would make him feel as if he were the luckiest man on Earth. It would certainly make him feel better than he’s currently feeling right now. Stealing a slight glance at her, his hand lightly squeezing her own. 

“That was very clever,” Aramis whispers. “False excuses and all… Athos put you up to this?” There’s a smile toying at the corners of his lips, and it can only grow as she laughs. 

The wooden creak of the bathroom door opening once again brings their moment to an abrupt end, and Aramis has to physically refrain from reaching out to her as she makes haste to stand again. “Athos!” The Queen regains her composure quickly, and Aramis simply shuts his eyes. 

“We did not manage to get his coat off just yet, but I believe he has rid himself of one boot.” She informs simply, stepping aside to let the other Musketeer take over. 

Athos does not waste time in pulling Aramis’ other boot from his foot, earning a deepened frown from the other soldier. 

“Are you trying to amputate my leg, or remove my shoe?!” Aramis grumbles, wriggling his foot to try and aid the action’s outcome. 

Of course, this comment is ignored, and Athos soon moves on to removing the coat from Aramis’ body. The heat radiates off of him similar to how the sun has been beaming down upon them outside, and the fact worries him rather greatly. He’s pressing the dampened cloth upon Aramis’ forehead after that, exhaling heavily. A job well done. 

“You will cool down a little, and then we shall make our way back to the garrison.” Athos turns. “Thank you, truly.” He leans forwards in a slight bow towards the Queen, and she smiles. 

“Where would any of us be if it weren’t for our Musketeers?” She says softly. “It’s only right to repay you whenever you need something.”

The next few minutes are spent encapsulated in a somewhat tension filled quietness. Athos paces back and forth to Aramis’ side, and then to the window; overlooking the vibrant grounds below. The Queen stays standing across the room, casting glances towards the resting Musketeer every now and then. Eventually, Athos speaks up; breaking the silence that blanketed them all. Well, aside from Aramis’ breathing. 

“We ought to get ourselves back to the Garrison,” he muses. “I will send for Lemay the moment we arrive.”

The Queen gestures a small nod towards him. “I can inform the King that important business came up for you both, and you simply had to be excused.” Although, she doubts he will even notice their absence. 

Athos dips forwards into a grateful bow, before making his way back over to the bed. Gently poking Aramis on the arm to rouse him, earning a quiet grumble from the half asleep soldier on the bed. A moment passes before he eventually sits, reaching for his boots to tug back onto his feet again. It takes a while, but eventually Aramis is dressed (albeit a little disheveled) and ready to leave. It takes Athos quite some willpower to lean over and fix his hat for him. 

Leading the way to open the doors, Athos stands aside to let the Queen make her way into the hallway first. He lets Aramis walk out next, standing close by should he stumble or fall. Thankfully, they make it back into the Palace grounds in one piece, without any tumbles. 

The Queen makes her way back to the garden party, and Athos discreetly escorts Aramis the long way around the back; to where their horses are resting and awaiting their arrival. 

Chapter Text

“Where are you going?” Aramis’ voice calls out gently, already moving to sit; despite Athos’ stern instructions for him to stay lying down. 

It has barely been ten minutes since they arrived back from the Palace, and already the healthy of the pair wishes he was not the one to have to deal with this. Alas, here they are, and it’s his job to ensure that Aramis does not to anything stupid to further endanger his wellbeing. God help them both. 

“To send for Lemay,” Athos responds simply. “Do stay put, or I will have to consider tying you to the damn bed.”

There’s a beat of silence, and from the growing smirk upon Aramis’ face, Athos already knows that he is about to make some sort of crude joke. 

“At least buy me dinner first, my friend.” There’s a tiny, but weak chuckle that follows afterwards. 

With a slight shake of his head, Athos exhales. “Stay put,” he warns one last time, before hastily making his way down the stairs and out into the courtyard; where he will fetch Jaque to summon the court Physician for him. It is not worth the risk leaving Aramis alone and going to fetch him by himself, after all. 

It does not take Athos all that long to complete the task he had set out for, and he is rather thankful to return and find Aramis still tucked up in his bed. He’s not sure the other Musketeer would even have the strength to move himself… But, then again, he would not put it past him to do so. Once he is back inside the man’s quarter’s, Athos makes quick work in fetching a small bowl of cold water and a cloth; pressing the damp material against Aramis’ furnace of a forehead. 

The action earns quite the glare from Aramis, his tired brown eyes opening for a moment just to cast the look. 

“I know that you do not appreciate this right now, but you are burning. So, I am afraid you will have to deal with it.” There is not much bitterness nor a stern tone to his voice, and much to his surprise; Aramis does relax back a little against his pillow. 

There is a short series of knocks against the wooden door a short while later, and Athos quietly calls for whom he assumes to be Lemay to enter. The Physician wanders inside, carefully closing the door behind him. 

“Athos,” he greets with a small nod of his head. “Is he—?”

“Asleep? Yes…” he pauses for a moment, not moving from where he has crouched himself beside the bed. “In a feverish state I would not recommend you wake him, Lemay. Give me a moment.”

Athos huffs out a short exhale, before pushing himself to stand. “Aramis?” He raises his voice back up to a normal volume, wagering that the soldier is still in a light sleep. 

As predicted, Aramis gasps himself awake; bolting upright into a sitting position. The confused expression that clouds over his face does not do wonders to the worry that Athos is already feeling, and he tentatively reaches out towards him. 

“Aramis,” he murmurs softly. “Lemay is here. You may lie back down.”

It only takes a moment for the sleepy state of shock to wear off, and thankfully he lies back down without a fuss. Lemay gestures a small nod of gratitude towards the Musketeer for his help, and wanders over to the bedside. Greeting his patient with a polite exclamation, before getting to work on assessing Aramis’ current condition. The room falls mostly quiet for around ten minutes, before he steps back again and leaves Aramis to get some more, well deserved rest. 

“For now, I can see that the fever seems to be the main ailment that is bothering him,” Lemay concludes toward Athos. “I would wager that he has contracted something of a harsh cold.” 

“Are you quite sure?” An eyebrow of Athos’ quirks upwards— he cannot help but question the man, for his worries around Aramis’ health often take over. (Albeit never admitting the fact out loud, that is.)

Lemay smiles, understanding the comrade’s concern for his fellow soldier. “At the moment, there are still questions. It could be an infection, or perhaps grow into one. He is not complaining of any specific and horrid pains, yet I also imagine that he would downplay one were he to develop it.” He pauses before continuing. 

“If anything is to get worse, please send for me. As for the moment, if you keep his temperature down and stabilise it there… he should feel a lot better. Other symptoms may arise or worsen in the meantime, so I will be back to check on him tomorrow evening if I do not hear from anybody by then.”

“Thank you,” Athos exhales gently. 

He takes a step forwards and wanders towards the door, pulling it open for the Physician to exit. Once Lemay has made his way out, Athos is promptly returning to Aramis’ side and dipping the cloth back into the water; for it has already begun to dry up from the heat of the man’s forehead. 

This is going to be a long afternoon.

Two days pass by fairly slowly, and Aramis’ fever finally breaks early on the second morning. He has still not been deemed fit for duty by both Lemay and Treville— much to his dismay— but, Athos has allowed him to come and sit in the courtyard this afternoon. 

Now situated on the bench, a blanket draped upon his shoulders (courtesy of d’Artagnan) and holding a mug of honey and lemon tea between both palms. D’Artagnan has now been named as superior honey tea maker, because he puts extra honey in. Athos always says that Aramis wants too much honey, and banned him from making the drink himself. D’Artagnan would never . 

Both Athos and Porthos have been training together for the last hour, and are only just finishing up their sword practice. Aramis has only been allowed to watch, and once again a little unfair. He could beat them easily— and he has made sure to tell them so. But… alas. Watching as the duo make their way towards him, leaning their swords up against the bench and taking a seat on the side behind where Aramis is situated. 

Bringing his chalice full of water up to his lips, Porthos sends an eyebrow raised glance towards Athos; watching on as Aramis’ shoulders shake slightly with suppressed coughs. “Was he doin’ that yesterday?” He questions the soldier by his side, before taking a swig of the drink. 

“Not all of yesterday, but it has been a growing concern since the latter part of the day.”

Aramis turns to face them, swinging his legs back over the bench seat. “You know that I can hear you, do you not?” He grumbles slightly, before taking a long sip of the sweetened beverage in his hand. 

“We were aware of the fact,” Athos hums. “Your point being?”

Aramis huffs, downing the rest of his hot drink and melodramatically placing it down upon the tabletop. “My point being … is that it’s just a cough. Nothing more, nothing less. And, so, neither of you need to drag poor Lemay back down here for the third time this week.”

Porthos folds both arms across his chest, somewhat of a fond smile toying at his lips. “I think that’s for us to decide,” he teases. “Don't you, Athos?”

“Since Aramis has no concept of personal care when it comes to falling ill, I quite agree.”

Aramis raises his hand to point a finger at them both, his brow creased in a light frown. “You’re both just rude,” he accuses. “Where’s d’Artagnan?”

“I believe he went to the market,” Athos responds simply. “Something about needing to buy a certain ingredient for Serge.”

As if on cue, the young Gascon is wandering back through the archway; holding a handful of bags and wearing a bright grin upon his face. He’s awfully cheerful, and Aramis cannot help but silently envy the mood he seems to be in. 

“Needed some spices!” He exclaims, coming over to halt for a moment. “Chicken soup has to have a kick to it if you want to properly clear your sinuses. That’s what my Father always used to say.” Yet, before anyone can answer him, he’s already striding off into the kitchen to deliver the goods. 

Porthos chuckles to himself, glancing across at Aramis and feeling his eyebrows raise as he gazes upon such a pouty expression. “Well, if you won’t eat it, I will.” He grins, leaning across the table to give Aramis a little pat on the arm. “Don't look so glum, you’ll be better in a few days. Even less if you actually stay in bed and rest yourself.”

“You know how much I despise just sitting around,” Aramis mumbles. “Especially whilst you are all leaving on a hunting trip tomorrow.”

“I don’t think the King would be too appreciative of the animals getting scared off by coughs and sneezes,” d’Artagnan’s presence rejoins the courtyard, and he wanders over to sit beside Aramis again. 

“It would be pretty funny though,” Porthos chimes in. 

The pair begin conversing across the table to one another, with Athos occasionally adding his input. However, Aramis simply rests his head against the side of his arm against the table; listening to his brothers talk is a comfort that he always misses when he’s cooped up. It’s another reason for wanting to come down into the courtyard this afternoon. However, perhaps he finds it more comforting than he thought… as a short while later, Athos is quietly clearing his throat; letting the others know that Aramis has dozed off in their presence. 

The chatter at the table fizzles out quicker than the charge on a musket, and Aramis opens one eye almost immediately. “Why did you stop talking?” He mutters. “It was a comfortable background noise. I’m not sleeping.”

There’s a smile upon Athos’ face as the others chuckle, and a moment later Serge is carrying dinner out towards them. “Large pot of chicken soup for you all— thought it best to make lots.” The pot is placed in the centre of the table, and the man is shuffling off to fetch bowls for them all. 

Aramis moves to sit up, although looking as if he may just doze off any moment. Perhaps something to eat will do him good. “Thank you,” he utters to Serge, when he returns with the bowls. “It is very kind of you.”

Although, as the food is served in front of him, Aramis can barely locate the appetite to pick up his spoon and dig in. His stomach still feels uneasy after the past two days… the fever causing nausea more than once, and Athos having to so kindly make sure that his curls were not dirtied in the process. It’s all a blur now that his fever has subsided, but he remembers that part quite well. 

The others are already tucking into their dinner, a small cough coming from d’Artagnan’s direction at the table. “Now that really will help you to breathe again,” he exclaims; turning to realise that Aramis still has not made an effort to pick up his cutlery. 

“Aramis?” The voice calling to him is enough to snap the soldier out of his thoughts, and reach for the spoon beside him. 

Giving the soup a slight stir, before bringing the first mouthful up and towards his chapped lips. The spice carries a kick to it indeed, but it is nothing that he cannot handle. Although, on a sensitive stomach, he is only going to eat a little. Perhaps half the bowl, so as to please d’Artagnan and avoid any stares from Athos. 

Athos is the first to stand once he has finished eating, and he’s making his way around the table to lay a hand upon Aramis’ shoulder. “I think it would be best if you retired to your quarters now,” he says gently. “I am going to do the same.”

Now, Aramis could argue. But, his throat feels sore and talking would only worsen such a fact. And, despite the sun beaming down upon their backs, Aramis feels the sudden need to curl up in bed and banish the cold feeling that’s been creeping underneath his blanket cape for the past hour or so. Perhaps he will comply just this once, after all, tomorrow he can get outside as much as he likes; with everyone being gone on the hunting trip with the King. 

“Gentlemen,” Aramis begins. “Thank you for your company.”

He’s getting to his feet now, removing his hat from his head to perform a little bow. “I wish for the King’s hunt to be less tedious than usual!” Aramis’ teasing does not go unpunished by karma, however, for his exclamations bring on a short bout of coughing. 

“Feel better!” D’Artagnan calls after him, turning back to Porthos once the other two inseparables have made their way towards their living quarters together. 

“I almost envy ‘im,” Porthos mutters, whilst helping himself to some more soup. “I want to stay here and drink tea all day.” A chuckle falls from his lips, before digging into a bite of chicken. 

Once back in his own room, Athos busies himself with sorting through the variety of herbs situated in the cabinet across Aramis’ room. He always keeps a collection of medicinal plants and such, for whenever they may come in handy for the garrison and his brothers. Now, however, they are to be used on the medicine man himself. Grinding up a cinnamon into a pestle and mortar, paying no mind to Aramis’ Spanish mumblings coming from behind him. 

Water will be boiled over in the kitchens (so kindly delivered by d’Artagnan a short while later), so that there is no need to light a fire in his room. Then, lemon, honey and a pinch of black pepper are all added into the concoction.

“I trust you are simply muttering in your mother tongue, because you are no longer feverish; only insulting me without me knowing so?” Athos questions, his eyebrows raised as he hands over the mug. 

Aramis, who is now sitting up against his pillow, chuckles at the notion. “I deny both of those statements,” he reassures. “You can even feel my forehead.”

Athos does so, although he knows rather well that Aramis would not offer if he was not quite certain of the lack of a fever present. Thankfully, his assumption is right; underneath the mess of curls brings no burning heat anymore. “How are you feeling now?” He asks, taking a seat upon the edge of the bed. “Answer truthfully, if you would.”

Spending a moment to take a small sip of his tea first, Aramis shrugs. “Better than two days ago,” he muses. 

“It is a relief not to see you no longer with a bucket clutched between your hands, although… I have a distinct feeling that you are not telling me the entire truth, Aramis.”

“A little better, a little worse… and the bucket was one time.” He takes another small sip of the drink, brow furrowed in annoyance. “Satisfied?”

“Somewhat,” a small smile begins to grow upon Athos’ face. “Would you like to be left alone now? If I can trust you not to do anything too troublesome whilst I’m gone.”

Before Athos can make it to the door, however, there’s a small voice asking him to ‘stay.’

And, so stay he will. 

Chapter Text

The next morning, Aramis is awoken by a not so stealthy Athos; who is trying his very best to remove himself from the other man’s grip. They had fallen asleep like this sometime within the early hours of the morning, after a lot of manœuvreing pillows and blankets to try and calm Aramis’ chest. It turns out that the perfect pillow all along was Athos himself. 

For once in his life, Aramis wakes up slowly. Athos is not all too sure if this is a good thing, as he stands above the bed looking into those warm, brown eyes. “Are you awake?” He mutters quietly, a small frown creasing his brow. 

“My eyes are open,” Aramis mumbles. 

“You were looking a little vacant.”

“You’re looking a little rude.”

A chuckle emerges from Athos, and he makes his way around the room; collecting each item of his uniform. “Would you like me to fetch you breakfast after we have been briefed?” He asks, pressing his hat down upon disheveled wavy hair. 

“Do you have to go?” That almost brings Athos to climb back into bed with him, but he knows that he can’t. The King needs them… although, he would much rather tend to Aramis’ needs. Such is the life of a Musketeer. 

“I’m afraid so,” Athos exhales slowly. “We will be back in two days. I trust you will not get into any mischief whilst the garrison is practically empty?”

“No promises,” Aramis jokes lightly, rolling over to cough into a pillow. Thankfully this pillow is not Athos. 

Wandering back over towards the bed, Athos reaches out to carefully help him sit. “I can send for Lemay—“

“It’s fine,” Aramis reassures. “Please. Go, before Treville’s morning temper shakes the buildings.” A smile is threatening to form now. 

Athos nods. “Rest, won’t you? I will know if you fail to do so.”

“That’s… a little ominous,” Aramis murmurs under his breath, to which Athos simply tips his hat to; before the door closes behind him. 

The room falls strangely quiet, and all of a sudden it feels much too cold. Aramis supposes he ought to draw himself a bath before getting up for the day, but he’ll take just a few more moments to gather the strength first. Perhaps one more lie down won’t hurt him. 

It is almost three hours later that Aramis makes his way out into the fresh air— somebody had  left him some breakfast outside his door, and so he never ventured out to the kitchens as originally planned— using a hand to shield his eyes from the unwelcome brightness of the sun. It’s eerily quiet with everybody off on the hunting trip, and he feels a little lost. Dressed only in a shirt and trousers as opposed to full uniform and not carrying any weapons makes him feel awfully out of place. Perhaps just a short half an hour of target practice won’t hurt. Afterall, he does dreadfully hate being bored. 

Whistling a soft tune as he turns in the direction of the armoury, stopping in his tracks for but a moment as he hears the sound of  footsteps not too far behind him. Pivoting on the heel of his boot, an eyebrow quirked upwards as he spots the visitor making her way towards him.

 “Constance Bonacieux, what brings you here on this fine afternoon?” He greets charmingly, removing his hat to tip it at her. 

She holds the basket, previously resting upon her arm, out towards him. “A little birdie told me that you weren’t feeling so well, so I brought some things! Some muffins, lemon and ginger tea packets, and a supply of handkerchiefs— d’Artagnan said you’d commandeered all of his.” The woman chuckles warmly, and Aramis’ brows raise even higher. 

“Ah, a wonderful little bird species named Charles… I see.” His tone only holds fondness though, and he reaches to take the basket. “Thank you, this is a very kind gesture.”

There’s a small pause between the two, and Constance stands watching him. “What were you doing before I arrived? Heading back to bed?” She tilts her head at him slightly, hands resting firmly upon her hips. He feels as if he is being scolded, all of a sudden. 

Aramis may have a slight headache, but he can very much still use his brain… and, he is beginning to put two and two together rather quickly. “Did Athos put you up to this?” He exclaims before thinking the sentence through, taking a moment to reconsider. “Not that… I am not grateful for your kindness.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to slap you again,” Constance teases lightly. “Perhaps he did. Perhaps he didn’t. Either way, I can still ensure that you get your rest and do not make your way down to the armoury behind you.”

Sometimes, this woman scares him a little bit. He’s opening his mouth to answer, but his gaze captures sight of something a few metres behind her; and he’s quickly distracted. “There’s a child coming up behind you,” Aramis mutters. “As much as that sounds like a perfectly timed and false distraction, I assure you, it is not.”

Constance adjusts her stance to fold her arms across her chest instead, giving Aramis a look of disbelief. “Do you really think I’m going to fall for that?” She huffs a short laugh, tapping her foot against the dusty ground. 

“Hold that thought, Madame.” Aramis holds up one finger, before turning away to sneeze quietly into his elbow. 

Before Constance can reply, there’s a tiny voice coming from behind her. “Bless you, Monsieur!” And, a small Yelp of surprise leaving Constance’s mouth. 

She turns around, indeed finding a small child standing there. Aramis clears his throat. “I told you,” he mutters softly. 

“Are you lost?” Constance asks the young girl, moving to carefully crouch down to her level. 

The little girl shakes her head quite enthusiastically, sending her braids flying from side to side. “No, no!” She exclaims. “I am here to see the Musketeers! Are you a Musketeer, Madame?”

The woman smiles at that. “I’m not, but Aramis is.” She points across to him, and Aramis takes a step forwards. 

“Monsieur! I need your help and my Mother says Musketeers are the best soldiers of the city! She says you are honorable and kind, and you helped my Father one day from a bad, bad man.” 

Aramis joins Constance at the same level as the young girl, and nods for her to go on. “Is somebody in trouble?” He asks her, resting an arm upon his knee. 

“Yes! No! I mean— my cat! She is in a tree and I fear she will fall and be so, so hurt!” The little girl’s brow furrows, and all of a sudden her bottom lip begins to tremble. 

“Hey, hey…” Aramis hushes softly, reaching out to take her hand. “Why don’t you come and sit down with us and tell us all about what happened, hm? You must be very tired from finding your way here, you are very brave indeed.”

The girl nods, giving Aramis’ hand a squeeze. He slowly gets to his feet and waits for Constance to do so before leading the child over towards the bench. Taking a seat on one side, as Constance helps lift the young girl onto the bench and sits down beside her too. There seem to be no tears in danger of spilling, and so they have successfully avoided a disaster in that respect. 

“What’s your name?” Aramis asks gently, turning his head to look at her. 

“My name is Juliette, but I sort of don’t like it,” she responds matter of factly, swinging her short legs back and forth underneath the seat. “I like being called Jul, because it reminds me of something shiny and nice.”

Aramis chuckles. “Then we shall call you Juli,” he replies. 

She grins at that, her face lighting up. “Monsieur… You are called Ramis, and what is your name? You’re very pretty,” she tells Constance, reaching out to hold her hand now instead. 

“That’s very sweet, Juli.” Constance smiles. “My name is Constance, and I’ll try to help you as much as I can. Could you show us to the tree where your cat got stuck?” 

She nods once again, before hopping down from the bench. Aramis attempts to catch her, but thankfully she lands upright. “I’ll show you! Follow me!” Juliette is already running across the courtyard, and Aramis is reminded just how energetic children truly are. 

The pair of adults hurry behind her, with Constance stealing a glance across at him as they do so. “Are you sure you’re alright to do this?” She questions, holding up her skirts so that she won’t trip over whilst jogging. 

“Constance, my friend, I am saving a cat from a tree… it is hardly a duel with an enemy, no? As comforting as your concern is, I assure you that I’m going to be fine.”

The girl weaves her way through crowds of bustling market goers, hurries down an alleyway, and finally comes to a halt in a small clearing. There’s a single tree planted in the centre of the courtyard, and a few children are  gathered nearby; playing a game of jump rope together. It seems to be a sort of playground for the younger members of the neighbourhood, and perhaps also one or two cats. 

A very disgruntled meow can be heard amongst the leaves, which confirms the young girl’s story to be true. Not that Aramis had for one moment considered this could be a well thought out trap… although now as he is standing here, he’s thinking about what a wonderful scheme that would be; as well as making a mental note to perhaps prepare for such a ruse in the future. At least this time it is a genuine mishap, because he does not have a single one of his weapons about his person and is silently thanking God for the fact that he doesn’t need them. Lest the cat be an enemy come back from the dead. 

“Up there!” Juliette points to the tree. “In the branches. It’s leafy, but I promise and swear she’s inside. Her name is Mademoiselle Patchy!”

“Mademoiselle Patchy will be just fine,” Aramis reassures gently. 

He’s making his way over to the tree— it’s rather tall, now that he looks up at it— and reaches for one of the branches. Placing his foot up on one, and then using his hands to pull himself up; Aramis proceeds to slowly make his way up into the tree. Ascending further and further, one branch by one, until he reaches the branch closest to the cat. “Hello, little one,” Aramis coos. “May I assist in getting you to safety?”

Carefully reaching out a hand towards the animal, just a little too far away to fully reach her. “Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s get you down…” inching his way along the branch his feet are situated upon. 

Withdrawing his hand for a moment, not wanting to spook the poor thing too much. “Aramis, what are you doing?” He mutters under his breath, shaking his head slightly. 

Now holding both hands out towards the cat, hoping that she’ll jump into his arms and he’ll somehow be able to carefully climb down with her. Really, he should have thought this through a little more before climbing. But, well, it is a little too late for that. Leaning forwards just a liiiiittle more, feeling his hat get snagged on a branch above him and go tumbling down further  into the tree. 

The cat meows in apparently protest to the noise, now standing on all four paws and eyeing Aramis as if he’s the enemy. “No, no, no… I’m here to help you!” He reassures, holding his hands very carefully out towards the animal once again. 

Mademoiselle Patchy glances at him, at a branch below her, and then back at him… before making a leap to the branch in question. “No!” Aramis cries out, attempting (and failing) to catch her; and losing his own footing in the process. Tumbling only a short way down before he manages to grab onto a branch, shooting a glance down to the lower branches; where the black and white cat has now comfortably situated herself. Exhaling heavily, and grimacing at the stinging sensation that spreads across his palms. 

“Oh, you aren’t stuck at all, are you?” He mutters in annoyance, reaching out to tug his hat down from above him. 

Upon pressing the hat atop of his curls, Aramis is taken by surprise by a sneeze. And, that seems to be enough to jar his body into losing his balance once again… sending himself tumbling all the way to the bottom of the tree, and onto the floor— accompanied by a short and undignified yelp. Thankfully there was only a short height between the branch he had been standing on and the floor, but now he does have a rather dull ache in his backside and his dignity has taken an even bigger hit. He almost says some rather choice words, but remembers that he is in the company of small ears. So, the words stay internal. 

But, before he can get himself up from the floor and pretend that he did that on purpose, Juliette is running over towards him; with Constance alongside. “Ramis!” She shouts. “You saved her! You saved her and you fell!” The little girl slides to a halt, and bumps into him; wrapping her arms tightly around his frame. 

Constance casts a glance towards him that’s draped in concern, but his little nod lets her know that he’s alright for now. There’s no need to cause a fuss, especially when there is young ones present. 

Aramis peers behind her, and sure enough the feline is sitting quite comfortably a few metres ahead of him. Emitting a small mrrp , before making her way over and rubbing her little head against his arm. “I am very glad she is safe,” he exhales heavily. “Are you all cheered up?”

Juliette steps back, and grins so wide; showing off a gap toothed smile. “Thank you!” She squeals. “Are you hurt?”

“Of course not! I’m a Musketeer, aren’t I?” He forces a smile, pushing himself to stand. “Now why don’t we take you and Mademoiselle Patchy back home?”

She nods, carefully scooping up the cat into her arms; who seems rather content to be there. It is clear that Juliette is a gentle soul. “I’m going to tell my Maman that a Musketeer helped me! I’m going to tell her all about it—“ Juliette yawns around her words, shuffling her feet along the ground as they walk. 

Aramis pauses, glancing across  at Constance. “How about I help you a little, hm? Constance could carry Patchy and I could carry you?” He offers, crouching down and holding out his arms for her to accept if she so wishes to. 

The young girl’s bright blue eyes widen at the suggestion, and then she offers the cat over to Constance’s hold. “I promise I will be very careful,” the woman says softly. It seems as though the animal is comfortable in her hold too, even closing her little eyes as they begin to walk onwards. 

Juliette climbs happily into Aramis’ arms, and rests her head against his shoulder. “Try to stay awake for a little bit longer, hm? We must find our way to your house first.” He removes his hat from his head, and places it atop of hers. 

A giggle emerges, and Juliette points to the left, once they have exited the alleyway they had originally come down. “Keep going this way. All the way past the Church, and my house is where the painted handprint is on the wood. I did that.” She grins mischievously. 

“I am sure you are quite the artist,” Aramis chuckles. 

The trio continue to follow the young girl’s instructions, and sure enough it does not take them all that long to find what they are looking for. As they make their way up to knock upon the door, Aramis feels Juliette’s weight begin to fall a little heavier in his arms. Reaching to gently take the hat from her head and place it upon his own, watching as Constance lets Patchy down onto the floor. 

He balls his fist to knock on the door, hearing the gentle tsk from beside him, as Constance gazes upon his grazed knuckles. Damn trees and their coarse branches. After a series of small knocks, a woman with rather kind eyes appears before them. “My Juliette!” She gasps softly. “I was wonderin’ where she had gotten to, oh God, we were worried! Where did you find her, Monsieur?”

Aramis smiles, leaning forwards to hand the sleepy child over to her Mother. “We have been helping to retrieve a rather stuck cat,” he explains. “Please, do not worry or be upset at her for leaving… your daughter is very clever, and very brave.” 

“Thank you, thank you… both of you.” The woman gestures to both himself and Constance, before stepping backwards. 

Tipping his hat towards her, giving one last smile towards Juliette as she manages a small wave in their direction. Turning on his heel to leave after that, already hearing Constance's ‘I’m about to scold you’ inhale. 

“We ought to get back to the garrison and assess any injuries you might have,” she mutters. “Your hands look awfully  scraped.”

“A few scratches,” Aramis corrects lightly. “Nothing to concern yourself over too much.” She huffs at him, only quickening her pace. 

Once they arrive back, she’s already directing him towards the living quarters. The look in her eyes tells him that there is absolutely no negotiating about to happen, and so Aramis begrudgingly leads her to his chambers. Opening the door and heading over towards the bed, before she drags him there herself. 

“I’ll fill a basin of water,” Constance starts, already bustling about. “And you can wash your hands. Did you truly not hurt anything else?”

“My pride, perhaps.” Aramis grumbles. 

A soft chuckle falls from her lips at that, before she disappears off and out into the hallway to fetch her supplies. He lets a heavy groan slip once she is out of ear shot, and leans back against his pillows. Taking the effort to tug off his boots before she returns, so that he can at least lie down for just a moment. 

Constance makes her way back into the room with an entire array of items, setting a tray down on the small table in his room. “Here,” she murmurs. “Place your hands in here… oh, Aramis. You’re all cut up.”

It’s true that his hands are in quite the state from grasping the branches as he fell, little red grooves patterned all over his palms. He winces slightly as he bathes them, but knows all too well that it is important to wash away any dirt; so as to prevent infections. “Let me wrap them after they are dry—“ Constance hands him a clean rag, and brings over some bandages from the infirmary. 

“They are not that bad,” Aramis responds, but there is little demand to his tone of voice. He’s tired, and he’s hurting. 

Ignoring his statement, she takes a seat upon his bed and is careful to wind the soft bandages around his tiny wounds. “Promise you didn’t hurt anything else? Hit  your head?” She ties off the first wrap, and moves on to his other hand. 

“I did not.”

“You cut your face a little bit,” Constance notes. 

“It will heal.”

Once his hands are fixed up, she takes a short glance over the rest of the skin that she can see. Nothing looks to be in immediate danger, and Constance knows that he fell to the floor from a shorter height after the other branches stopped his first fall. “What made you so terribly stubborn?” She questions him, getting to her feet to fetch the tea she had brewed. 

Aramis shrugs, not willing to answer such an enquiry. “Thank you,” he almost whispers, taking the tea into his hands. “You do not have to stay, I swear to you that I will rest for the entirety of the afternoon.”

“I can go if you really want me to,” she responds quietly. “But, I’d like to keep you company for a little bit longer.” He looks quite miserable now, resting there and sniffling. 

He simply nods, leaning further back against the pillows and sipping at the tea she had brought him. Constance takes that as acceptance to her offer, and brings over a chair to sit upon. “Do you think Athos is going to believe us, when we say that we saved a cat and you fell out of a tree?” She giggles, and watches as his eyebrows raise. 

“You’re never going to let me forget it, I fear…?” Aramis grumbles, hiding his face behind the mug he is holding. 

“Nope!” She grins. “Nor the sound you made as you fell onto the floor either.”

The pair start to laugh after that, and Aramis figures that this isn’t so bad afterall. He doesn’t mind Constance’s company one bit, and does not even argue when she covers him with a blanket a short while later. A few minutes after lying down, and his room is filled with the sound of congested snoring. Constance smiles. 

… What a day .

Chapter Text

Aramis barely gets a wink of sleep that night. Between being too congested to breathe right and coughing anytime he would lay down flat, it’s fair to say that he spent most of the night tossing and turning in the bed. Eventually, he gave up and gazed out of the window at the moon. It was around three hours later that he woke up on the floor… he must’ve taken a seat down there and dozed off. 

Something of his usual appetite has begun to return, and so after he has eaten the porridge that Serge so kindly made, he draws himself a bath. His curls are a wild mess, and they truly need washing. The entire process takes up the rest of his morning; he’s barely dressed when there’s a short knocking sound against his door. 

Brushing some damp waves of hair from his eyes and making his way over to answer it, not all that surprised to find none other than Constance Bonacieux standing there; a warm smile shining up to her eyes. “Afternoon!” She greets a little too cheerfully for his liking. “May I come in? I have a bowl of hot water with your name on it.”

Aramis’ brow furrows, yet he steps aside. “Hot water for— oh, steam?” He answers his own question as he comes to the realisation, and steps forwards to close the door. 

“Exactly! If you take a seat at the table and lean over the bowl, I’ll put the towel on your head… although you really shouldn’t be sitting around with wet hair.” Constance scolds, having the set the bowl gently down and standing with her arms folded. 

He falls quiet as she tells him off, for once not having a witty remark to come back with. But, her facial expression soon softens and she reaches out to guide him onto the chair. “I’ll fetch you some lunch if you promise not to run away,” Constance jests, waiting for him to lean over; before placing the towel over his head and around the sides of the bowl. 

When she receives no reply, she makes her way down to the kitchens. Serge has once again made soup and so she brings two bowls back into the living quarters and up the stairs. Balancing a stick of bread under her arm and somehow managing to manoeuvre open the door without dropping everything. Setting it all gently down a little further away from where Aramis is relaxing, and settling herself on the chair opposite. 

A few minutes of almost silence go by, before Aramis eventually re-emerges from his little steam tent; a flushed hue to the skin. “That was a wonderful idea,” he exclaims, a grin appearing on his face. “Thank you!” 

There’s a pause, and he scrunches his expression slightly. 

“Why didn’t I think of that?” 

Constance exhales a soft laugh, whilst Aramis momentarily disappears into the bathroom with a handkerchief tucked between his fingers. He would not dare to blow his nose in front of a lady. That would not be very charming nor graceful of him. Tsk. Returning a few minutes later, and bustling around for a moment before joining her at the table. 

She slides his bowl of soup towards him, and some bread if he would like it to accompany. “Do you feel any better?” The woman questions gently, eyebrows knitting closer with genuine feeling. Constance truly cares, and it’s quite clear why d’Artagnan could fall for someone like her. 

“A little,” Aramis answers truthfully, stirring his soup for a moment. 

The pair fall into a comfortable quiet as they eat, although Aramis finishes much before she does. Leaning back in his chair and glancing up at her, a sigh falling from slightly less chapped lips. “Constance,” he begins. “I appreciate all of this very much, but I truly do assure you that I do not need… babysitting.” He waves a dismissive hand, looking to be in thought. 

“I never said anything about babysitting!” She responds simply, placing her spoon against the side of her now empty bowl. “But if that’s what you want to call it.” A smirk tugs at the corners of her lips. 

Well, now that’s just unfair. “You and Athos have bad bedside manners,” Aramis grumbles to himself. 

She simply beams at him, before getting up from her chair. “Will you let me change your bed sheets? You look exhausted, and I bet it’ll be nice to lie down on clean sheets, won’t it?” Constance is already making her way over. 

Dammit, she’s too nice. “Constance,” Aramis is quick to stand. “You have already done enough.”

Stepping past him, she begins humming to herself and going about the task. “Aramis, I do this all the time at home. It is not like I’m not used to it, and I want to help.” 

He’s left standing helplessly behind her, unsure of what exactly to do next. “Can I help?” He asks after a moment of consideration. 

“Nope!”

“Not even a little?”

“Mh—mh.” She shakes her head. 

And so, Aramis simply watches her leave the room with his sheets bundled in her arms. He spends his time waiting for her to get back by finding a salve in his cabinet— for the cuts on his hands. They are unwrapped now, and he’d put a little of the cream on his hands when he couldn’t sleep during the night. He’ll bandage them again later if need be. There’s a soft hiss as he clenches and unclenches his fingers, the scrapes stinging a little. A heavy sigh falling from his chest, followed by a short round of coughing. 

“You look awful,” a rather familiar tone comes from behind him. Aramis turns, gaze settling upon Athos leaning up against his door frame. 

Recovering from the coughs, eyebrows raised. “Athos? You’re back early?” 

“The King took ill… a fever. God knows where he could have gotten such an ailment.” He stands up straight, making his way inside the room. 

“Is he—“

“He will be perfectly fine. Lemay has confirmed that it seems to be a mild case.”

Athos’ gaze travels down to Aramis’ hands, and then back up to his watery brown eyes. “Madame Bonacieux tells me you had a fight with a tree. It all sounds very heroic.”

Aramis folds his arms over his chest, although quickly unfolds them as the fabric of his shirt  rubs against his hands. 

“It is good to see that your fighting skills are… branching out.”

“Athos,” Aramis cannot help but start to giggle. “That was the worst thing you have ever said to me. Ever .” 

The corners of Athos’ mouth curl up just slightly, and he turns to face the door as Constance renters. “What are you two looking so amused about?” She queries, making quick work of putting the clean sheets onto Aramis’ mattress. 

“Madame Bonacieux,” Athos greets. “I am in your debt for all you have done these past two days.”

She chuckles to herself, finishing her task at hand before turning to face him. “Nonsense,” Constance replies. “He wasn’t that bad. Just a smidge stubborn though.”

Aramis frowns, but walks over to the bed and sits down. “ He is right here… and he thanks you for all of your help.” The last part is mumbled a little sheepishly. 

Athos offers to lead her to the door after that, conversing quietly with her for a moment and thanking her one last time. After insisting she will be fine to see herself out, Constance makes her way into the hall and down the stairs; leaving Athos and Aramis alone together. 

He turns, gaze trained on Aramis. “I must get out of these clothes before they melt from my body, and I trust you will stay put?” Athos questions, an eyebrow quirked ever so slightly upwards.  

A hesitant nod. 

“Good.” 

Athos is gone for the good part of an hour, and Aramis is juuust getting up to peer into the hallway and see if he’s alright… when the door opens and he walks in. They both stand opposite one another for a moment, before Athos shoots him a questioning look. 

“What took you so long?” Aramis breaks the silence, turning around to get back on the bed before he is asked to do so. 

“I had to bathe,” when Athos says ‘bathe,’ he really means dunking a bucket of cold water over himself. Soap is involved somewhere. “It was hot on the hunting trip.” 

Now, he is dressed in clean clothing and no longer has to wear a full uniform— that god awful heavy leather is torture in the full summer’s heat. Having to listen to the King at the same time? Terrible. Making his way over to the bed, performing a small gesture of his head telling Aramis to move over so that he can join him. 

It takes Aramis barely a moment to lean over and rest his head against Athos’ chest, closing his eyes. Athos’ hand finds its way into slightly damp curls, and all of a sudden everything feels right again. 

He’s asleep within five minutes.