Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Athos: Can you come over today? Raoul is sick, and I have to go to work. I don’t want to leave him but I have to – I have a full schedule of appointments and no one can cover my shift.

Aramis knows before he even finishes reading Athos’ text that he’s going to say yes. He owes Athos. Plus, even a sick Raoul is better company than most of the adults Aramis knows. (And infinitely better than Richelieu.)

Aramis: omw over :)

When Athos opens the door, Aramis can feel the tension radiating from him. He doesn’t even say hello, just nods his head once, sharp. There’s a familiar, anxious set to his shoulders; after Aramis steps into the apartment and shrugs off his coat, he puts a hand on Athos’ shoulder, and tries his best to pitch his voice to a comforting tone. “Relax, Athos. Everything’ll be alright.”

Athos nods, like he’s been telling himself the same but can’t bring himself to truly believe it. He’s stiff, still all sharp angles and a set jaw, and Aramis privately wonders how long he had held out before calling in reinforcements.

“You sure you’re okay to work? You look like you could use some sleep.”

Athos snorts, then gestures to his thermos. “I have caffeine,” he says. Aramis looks past him; the coffeepot is about half-full, and there’s an empty mug in the sink that looks fresh.

“When did you sleep last?” Aramis tries his best to imitate Athos’ Dad Voice, but doesn’t quite seem to manage it, given that Athos doesn’t even bother to dignify him with a response.

“He was taking a nap before, but I passed by his room earlier and heard the Avengers assembling, so I doubt he’s asleep still.”

Aramis smiles to hear it. 

“His bedtime is at nine, don’t let him stay up past that, he gets one snack, don't believe him if he tells you he gets more. Emergency numbers are on the fridge—“

“Athos,” Aramis says, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder. “Stop worrying. I have, in fact, taken care of kids before. I’ve even taken care of this kid before.”

Athos just looks at him. “A month and a half ago you called me from inside the hospital after you tried to do a kickflip on a skateboard, fell down a flight of stairs, and — in Porthos' exact words — ate it on the asphalt, so…”

Athos lets his voice trails off, looking at Aramis with one raised eyebrow. He doesn’t need to finish his sentence to make his point; that deadpan stare of his works wonders.

God, Aramis thinks, I need to learn how to do that.

Aramis takes his hand off of Athos’ shoulder to hold them both up, palms toward Athos. “Wasn’t a total loss, I still got her number,” he mumbles, a sheepish smile on his face, resolutely ignoring the way his cheeks flush. 

With a heavy roll of his eyes, Athos leads him through the living room and into Raoul’s bedroom, where a small looking Raoul is wrapped in a burrito on his bed. Aramis looks from him and back to his Father, and then back to the burrito to wave a greeting. He waits for Athos to say goodbye to him, watching as Athos presses a kiss to Raoul’s head and gives him a hug… noting how it looks as if Raoul is very close to crying. And, of course, Aramis is not going to discourage that– in this house they are all very much about feeling their feelings together, whatever those feelings are. But when Aramis looks back at Athos it looks like he might want to cry too — and Aramis understands why he doesn’t want to leave Raoul for the day. 

“I will have a few days off after this, and I’ll try to switch my on-call shift around so that I can be home. I will see you tonight, okay?” 

With one last ruffle of his hair, Athos makes his way out of the room to the door and fetches his things, stepping outside before he makes himself even later than he already is. Aramis turns back to Raoul and crouches down by the bed, arms open in an offer of a hug. 

“It’s okay to be sad,” he says softly. “Remember? It’s good to feel all of the things, even if they are not good things.” 

Raoul sits up and crawls into his arms, and there’s a small pause. “You can cry too, Raoul. Don’t worry.” Another little pause, before the silence is broken and sobbing ensues from the burrito in his arms. Aramis has to stop himself from concentrating too much on feeling his own heart breaking as Raoul cries out his feelings. 

It does not take too long for him to calm down, and a little while later they’re  settled on the sofa together out in the living room, the pair of them watching a Spider-Man cartoon and sipping from  their juice boxes. 

“You look very tired,” Aramis says quietly; gaze fixed on Raoul, who is sipping his apple juice. “How about after your juice you get some sleep? I think it’ll be time for your next medicine dose after that.” The boy scrunches his nose in distaste, but nods. He looks up at Aramis sleepily and holds out the juice box for him to take. 

“Can I sleep on you?” He murmurs, already shuffling closer. 

Aramis smiles at him. “I would be honoured to be your pillow, Raoul. Do you need anything before you sleep?” A shake of his head is the confirmation Aramis needs, and so he helps Raoul to get comfortable, and makes sure the blanket is tucked tightly around him. He brushes Raoul’s messed curls away from his face to check on the fever sticker Athos had explained about in a hushed voice as he’d gathered his things — these things are pretty cool. Raoul’s temperature is warm, but not too high. It’ll be fine for nap time. 

Aramis turns the volume down; Spider-Man may be Raoul’s second-favorite superhero, but naptime is something that even Spider-Man cannot interfere with.

“Sing the frog song?” Raoul whispers after a moment, eyes already closed. 

“‘Sana Sana’?” Aramis replies, just ensuring that he gets the right song for him. When there’s the movement of a little nod against his chest, Aramis begins to sing the little Spanish rhyme, though by the end of the first rendition, Raoul’s fast asleep. 

He’s relieved Raoul is asleep – from what he can tell, neither Raoul nor Athos had gotten much sleep – but this does mean that Aramis is now stuck as a pillow. After forty minutes Aramis does carry him to bed (where he can nap more comfortably) and let him have some more rest. Raoul  barely even stirs as he is carried— and so Aramis heads into the kitchen to prepare a snack plate for someone who most likely won’t eat a full lunch. He cuts up fruit and vegetables, a cereal bar, and fills up a water bottle, arranging them on a small tray. After that he fetches the three medicine bottles that he’ll be needing for the next doses Raoul will need. 

Now he has to go and wake him up… which Aramis would very much rather not do, but the medicine is important, and it’s almost been two hours now. 

Thankfully, when he walks in, Raoul is already beginning to wake on his own. 

“Afternoon,” Aramis greets gently. “I bring good medicine, yuck medicine and a packet of chocolate buttons for recovery from said yuck medicine,” he chuckles to himself. 

“Do you want to wait a small while to wake up first?” He watches and waits for a nod, deciding to take a moment to open up the curtains. 

“It’s sunny,” Raoul notes, obviously ignoring the mentions of medicine. “I like outside.”

“When you’re all better you can go outside,” Aramis reminds him. “Maybe even tomorrow for a little while.”

“If I take my medicine I’ll get better faster…” he’s connecting the dots, pushing himself to sit. “At least, that’s what Dad tells me. He’s a Doctor.”

“He is,” Aramis smiles. “A very clever one. Just like you are a very clever young man.” He crouches down and holds up the two bottles. 

“Which one first?” Raoul looks very deep in thought for a whole minute or so… before pointing to the ‘yuck’ bottle. “That’s a very clever choice. The good tasting medicine will help right away!”

“And the chocolate button,” Raoul points out. 

Aramis laughs, proceeding to pour the spoonful for him. He’s quick as he can to pour the nicer tasting spoonful afterwards, trying his very best not to chuckle at Raoul’s disgusted expression. All medicine should taste as nice as Calpol, especially adult medicine. Alas. “There, you did wonderfully,” he praises, handing over two of the chocolate pieces; he smiles when Raoul only takes one. “Ready for lunch?” 

As expected, there’s a shaken head in response, so Aramis proceeds to explain that it’s only a snack lunch. And so after a short while (and a brisk but necessary bathroom break), they are back in the living room once again. Two carrot sticks, an apple slice and half of the bottle of water are the only things consumed, but it is indeed better than nothing. 

It’s not too long after lunch has ended that there’s a quiet knocking sound, followed by a certain Uncle Porthos peeking inside. 

“Hello,” he greets with his signature grin. “Room for one more?”

 Raoul doesn’t greet him with the usual excited yell, and Porthos immediately frowns, knowing that it must be serious. He’s wandering inside after Aramis nods at his question, toeing off his shoes and taking a seat beside Aramis. “Thought I’d come help out if you need anything… Was going to make some soup!” He kisses Aramis on the cheek in greeting as he settles in to the couch. 

“Soup for me?” Raoul chimes in quietly, peering over and not so carefully (or subtly, ouch ) climbing over Aramis so that he can get a cuddle, too. 

“For the one and only!” Porthos confirms, carefully wrapping him up in his arms. “How’s tomato soup and grilled cheese cut into tiny squares sound?”

“Do I get tiny squares too—?” Aramis butts in, turning to look at them both. Porthos rolls his eyes fondly at him, but it earns a giggle from Raoul, so Aramis decides nothing else currently matters. 

“Of course you do,” Porthos grins and plays along. “We still have some time before dinner though… what’s the plan?”

Raoul thinks about it for a little while, before shrugging, leaning against Porthos, and closing his eyes. 

“Rest plan, I like it.” Porthos confirms with a nod. 

“I really love you guys,” Raoul whispers quietly – leaving both Aramis and Porthos looking at one another with emotional expressions as he begins to drift off to sleep. 

“We really love you too,” Aramis replies softly, clearing his throat and checking on his fever sticker before getting up. 

Aramis decides he’ll clean up the apartment for a short while before the next medication dosage is needed, and then Porthos can get their dinner prepared. They’re doing a great job as a team— he’s quite thankful that he came over, but then again it’s always usual for at least one of them to drop by when they find out that someone in the family isn’t doing so well or needs some sort of help. 

He doesn’t want Raoul to sleep for too long, or else he won’t sleep tonight; and Athos will most likely be tired after his shift. Thankfully, once again he’s waking up on his own after only fifteen minutes, peering around the room as if he’d forgotten he was using Porthos as a pillow. 

The pair start reading stories together for a little while – as he finishes tidying the apartment and preparing the medicine, Aramis can hear Porthos and Raoul’s voices as they tell the stories to each other, so he leaves them alone for the most part. Storytime is only temporarily interrupted to take cough syrup, and then finally Porthos has to begin preparations for dinner(if they want to eat before Raoul’s bedtime). Aramis takes over the book reading and putting on all of the silly voices; Raoul snuggles into him and listens, and Aramis does a very good job of telling the story alone, according to Raoul’s review at the end. 

Dinner is a success (though no one had really been worried, with Porthos in charge of cooking), Even better – and to Aramis and Porthos’ cheer –  Raoul doesn’t seem to be spiking a fever as his last dose of medications begin to wear off. He almost finishes his soup and only leaves two squares of grilled cheese, and a few minutes later the bee sticker continues to stay orange — all good signs, and he’ll happily report it back to Athos when he gets home later.

 “Now,” Aramis announces. “We’re going to try taking just the Calpol, and then you tell me if you feel okay through the evening. How do you feel now?” He’s crouched down at Raoul’s level, assessing him silently. Raoul nods, face looking serious.

“Like I’m full of food… but there’s a pain in here—“ he points to his throat. “–and in there—“ and points to his head. “–and a little one in my ears. But… I feel okay.”

Aramis smiles, reaching to gently ruffle his hair. “Well, you’re a very good patient. Let’s take this medicine and see how you are in a while. Shall we watch Spider-Man? Or play Legos?” He waits, watching as Raoul shakes his head. 

“I just want to sit with you and Uncle Porthos, please.”

“My most polite patient this week!” Aramis exclaims, and can’t help but laugh along with Raoul. After the medicine, he checks on Porthos’ cleaning job in the kitchen and helps him out with the last few things, before the pair return to sit. “Are we going to become pillows again?” Aramis jests, as they each sit beside him. 

“Maybe,” Raoul grins a little. He rests his head against Porthos’ arm and tugs Aramis’ hand into his own. And that’s how they stay until Athos wanders quietly through the door an hour later, already changed into fresh clothes and hair still wet after using the shower in Aramis and Porthos’ apartment next door. He takes a cautionary glance at the sofa, hoping not to find Raoul looking worse than before… and, a very heavy sigh of relief leaves him at realising there’s nothing drastically wrong. Being a Father is full of worry. 

Raoul sees him and waves excitedly, climbing down from the sofa and walking over with his arms open. Aramis and Porthos, who like Raoul had been dozing, both wake up as Raoul clambers off of them.

Athos is scooping him up within moments and holding him close. “How were your Nursing staff today?” He jokes quietly, pressing a kiss to his son’s head. 

“Good Nurses,” he replies with another little grin. “Aramis said I am doing a little better and I didn’t need the gross medicine, because my head isn’t really hot anymore!”

“Well, that is good news. How about we brush your teeth soon and I’ll sit with you in your room? We can read three stories.”

“Three?” Raoul gasps a little. “That’s a whole one more than usual!”

Athos chuckles at that. “It is indeed,” he hums. “I think you deserve it. Shall I help you brush your teeth?” After the small nod, he’s carrying Raoul into the bathroom, indicating to the others that he’ll come and talk to them in a short while, and also managing to thank them both before Raoul gets impatient. Three stories, after all, is a real treat.

Raoul falls asleep after the first book is read, and Athos carefully tucks him in. The ladybug sticker on his forehead shows him that Raoul still hasn’t exceeded 37.6°C, and so Athos’ll come and check on him again in a short while. For now, he owes both Aramis and Porthos his deepest thanks— although they will insist it isn’t needed, because Raoul is a wonderful person whether or not he needs some extra care, and anyway they needed an excuse to get out of the house. 

Still, Athos decides. He’ll find a way to thank them for today, for taking care of Raoul when he couldn’t.

He can’t help but grin when he walks back in to the living room to see Aramis and Porthos still on the couch, both looking at each other like they’re in the middle of a secret, serious, silent discussion. After a second, Athos understands – they’re both silently daring the other to move first, because neither of them seem too inclined to actually get up and go back to their own apartment, for all that it’s literally next door.

Athos huffs a laugh before he turns away, the corner of his lips twitching. They don’t even notice he’s there until he throws the first pillow at Aramis’ head, and drops the blanket unceremoniously on the both of them.

“Sleep here tonight,” he says, and they nod, as one.

Athos ruffles their hair and presses a kiss to both their foreheads in thanks before he drags his tired self to bed.

Their little group may be unbridled chaos most days, but they are a family, afterall.

Chapter Text

In Aramis’ defense, he didn’t even feel that bad when he got up for work this morning—!

Although, upon walking through the doors, he does notice a slight headache. Maybe a scratch in his throat? But it’s fine. It’s fine, and he’s fine, and everything is fine. He’s probably just dehydrated or something. The apartment is dry.

There are a hundred sensible explanations. And all of them lead him to the same conclusion: It’s nothing to worry about.

He’s greeted by Constance’s today-looks-like-it’ll-be-a-good-shift smile, the one she wears when she’s got a good feeling but refuses to say it out loud because that’ll just jinx it, Aramis!

“Morning!” She chimes, wheeling out from behind the Nurse’s station on the office chair, because walking is clearly overrated this early in the morning.

“You have a very chipper tone for seven AM,” Aramis grumbles, sipping at his iced coffee and glowering at her through his sunglasses. “Who's here today?”

His question has Constance wheeling herself back behind the desk, so she can dramatically tap  the board for emphasis as she reads out the schedule for him.

“Marie is on the ward having an infusion. We had a surgery recovery bed that was rescheduled, and we have one patient down in A&E coming up to us in a little while to go onto the ward. So far, that’s all. We have a student Nurse with us this morning until shift changeover, but Sylvie said if it gets busy she can come in.” She grins.

Aramis is sure to smile back at her, so as not to raise her weirdly sensitive ability to know that something is wrong.

“Good,” he hums. “I’ll be back in five— just dropping my stuff off into my locker.”

True to his word, Aramis is back in five minutes (iced coffee still in hand), just in time for the morning staff meeting. He’s attentive and responsive, just enough that Constance makes the mistake of taking it at face value.

At least she does – until she walks into the break room a few hours later, and finds Aramis sitting at the table. He looks absolutely miserable – he’s draped dramatically over the table, and he’s struggling to stab a plastic straw through a juice pouch, and there are tissues trailing from either nostril. It’s a lot to take in, really. Constance is quick to process this, though perhaps not quick enough to mask her hysterical snort of amusement.

Aramis, hearing her, shoots up ramrod straight and immediately attempts to look like something other than a man struggling to accomplish a task most children could manage without adult supervision. Constance just raises one single eyebrow at him. 

Aramis knows immediately that he’s busted.  

“I trust I don’t need to tell you the importance of not working when you’re sick,” she says, leveling her infamous stare at him. Better men than he have succumbed to that glare, he knows.
But he’s got weapons of his own; he turns a look on her that Porthos has referred to as his “sad puppy-eyes” in the past. It’s gotten him out of enough scrapes and awkward situations when he’s aimed it at Porthos; maybe it’ll get him out of this, too. He only remembers belatedly that he’s still got tissues shoved up his nose and that he’s maybe just possibly not thinking straight. (The room is spinning, a little, at the edges.)

And, of course, that Constance is immune to all of his looks. 

She smirks at him like she knows exactly what he’s doing. And then she digs into her pocket and takes out her phone, and the game is over. Aramis lets his head sink into his arms, conceding defeat in the relief of closed eyes and a heaving sigh.

He doesn’t mean to doze off, but when he opens his eyes, he can hear — giggling? The light is obnoxiously bright, his head is buzzing, and he has to blink the pain away. Only, when his eyes do come into focus, he sees Constance there, her signature smug smirk on her face, standing arm-in-arm with Anne. Aramis’ brain is slow to react, and he hopes the blush that flares across his cheeks passes off as a fever. Better to be sick than to lose control around every pretty lady he sees.

“Just leave me here to die, please,” he groans.

He tries to ask what’s happened, but from the look on both Constance's and Anne’s faces, he seemingly misses most of the vowels. Or maybe the consonants. One of the two, definitely. 

“Anne’s going to take you home,”  he resurfaces again to Constance’s voice.

“Here,” Anne says, reaching forward and finally stabbing the straw in the pouch before placing it back into his free hand. He finds himself, inexplicably, drinking the juice he’d completely forgotten about.
Anne and Constance talk in low voices while he finishes his juice box; he thinks he hears Athos’ name, but the conversation is a bit too cluttered for his still-sleepy brain to fully parse out, so he focuses on drinking his juice. He doesn’t even realize there’s nothing left and that he’s trying to drink air until Constance’s steady hand takes the box from him, and the room goes suddenly silent. 

“You’ll make yourself sick, doing that,” she admonishes absentmindedly, not even looking at him.
Aramis loses track of what’s happening and only registers the change in temperature as Anne links her arm through his and ushers him through the hospital to her car.

“Rest, Aramis,” she says when he startles as the engine turns over, “don’t worry,” and he feels her hand on his shoulder, “I’m taking you to Athos. I’m taking you home.” 

Home, he thinks, and Athos, and he feels his eyes closing without thinking about it. 

The catnap in the car has given him a burst of energy — by the time Anne’s lightly shaking him awake, he’s Awake™, and he’s more rested than at any point of the day so far. He’s even able to convince Anne that he doesn’t need an escort, though she accompanies him anyway, saying something about having a gift for Raoul she’d bought from the gift shop when she’d heard he was sick.

(A week later, he’ll drop a bowl of cereal and scatter his breakfast across the counter and halfway across the kitchen floor as he realizes, suddenly: she’d never actually given anything to Raoul when she’d walked in; she’d only talked to Athos, politely declined tea, and then ruffled Raoul’s hair on the way out. Porthos won’t even look up; he’ll just hand him the dustpan and mini-broom they keep in the pantry for such an occasion, a smirk on his face.)

Athos and Raoul are in the kitchen – Athos cleaning up after lunch, it seems, and Raoul hanging onto Athos like a limpet (as both he and his uncles are wont to do when they’re even a little under the weather). Luckily for Athos, when Raoul sees Aramis, he finally lets go – Athos looks at Aramis with a desperate relief – and demands to be lifted and held, as is right and proper.

Aramis acquiesces eagerly, swinging the boy a little just to hear him laugh before settling him on his hip, so Raoul can rest his head on Aramis’ shoulder.

“Let’s go into the family room, okay, buddy? You want to take a nap?” Raoul nods, eyes already closing.
Aramis feels the same kind of desperate relief – he’s got more energy now than he’s had all day, but that still isn’t much in the grand scheme of things. He’s not quite as miserable as he was when Constance caught him with the juice pouch, but it’s only a thin veneer of false energy that separates him from falling to such depths again.

And besides, a nap sounds like just what the nurse ordered, if he does say so himself.

Thankfully, today is a day off for Athos, so he can freely provide all of the care and Spider-Man that Raoul may need. The boy is currently building a Lego spaceship for his little Avenger Lego figures. He is making a grocery shop too— because superheroes need their lettuce too, Dad! — and who is Athos to question such six-year-old wisdom? Especially when such knowledge is so sound.

The television has been playing cartoon Spider-Man reruns since seven o’clock in the morning; Aramis had arrived with Anne around an hour after lunch… and Athos wasn’t sure it could get any more frustrating.

Until Aramis started to sniffle. 

Now, Athos is a Doctor. Athos is a very successful Doctor who prides himself on dealing very calmly with his patients.

But Athos is a pediatric Doctor. And Aramis is an adult. An adult Nurse. An adult Nurse who is very capable of standing on his own two feet and walking over to the tissue box. Athos is an adult Doctor who is running on a few hours of sleep and has the Spiderman theme tune firmly ingrained inside his mind.

Athos is also a Dad – and a very tired one at that. 

“Aramis.”

“Aramis…”

“Aramis!”

No response. 

Raoul has been disturbed from his shop creation and is now staring at his Father to see what all the commotion is about. 

“Raoul, dear, would you help me out?” The boy is eager to nod, already pushing himself to stand. “Could you fetch Uncle Aramis the tissue box? He seems to have forgotten that it exists.”

Two little feet patter across the ground, and Raoul grabs the box from the coffee table, jogging his way over to Aramis and very… helpfully taking one out and holding it in his uncle’s face.

The action finally seems to snap Aramis back to reality, and the sound that he makes is a rather comedic sort of yelp. Brown eyes very slowly travel toward Athos’ unamused expression, and Aramis slowly takes the tissue. Perhaps he does need one, he thinks, though he’ll never ever admit such a thing within earshot of Athos.       

“Very helpful; thank you, Raoul,” he mutters, moving to stand and dispose of it correctly once he’s done. He wastes no time in returning to his spot on the sofa and curling back up, earning quite the sigh from Athos. 

Although Athos had assumed that this would happen, he did not think that he would have to deal with it yet. Should he call in backup? Should he call Porthos in case operation ‘carry Aramis to bed because he is being too stubborn to go by himself’ needs carrying out? Perhaps Constance, because she seems always to be able to scare him into taking care of himself. Athos, you are a literal Doctor. A Doctor for children, admittedly, but it seems that Aramis falls under the job description rather well. 

Aramis tries to discreetly grab another tissue, as if he can somehow blow his nose without being overheard, and Athos’ decision is made.

He will not say anything to Aramis directly.

Instead, he will stand from his resting place in the comfortable armchair and do what is needed.

It’s time for the big guns. 

The bumblebee sticker. 

Raoul follows Athos into the kitchen like a little sheep, and follows back again when he brings the sticker sheet into the living room. 

Naturally, Aramis has realized that the game is over, and has very maturely hidden himself under a blanket, like the child he truly is. 

“Aramis,” Athos mutters, with little emotion to his tone. “Do not make me tug this blanket and mess up your precious curls.”

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm—“ comes the muffled reply. 

Raoul, meanwhile, is simply observing the events and giggling. After waiting for approximately thirty seconds, Athos pulls on the blanket and manages to tug it down far enough to expose most of Aramis’ face. 

“I don’t need a bee!” Aramis grumbles indignantly, even going so far as to fold his arms over his chest. He’s being ignored, of course, and Athos carefully brushes back his curls and sticks the bumblebee sticker against his warming forehead. He isn’t surprised to find that he’s already close to spiking a fever. 

Aramis doesn’t need a bee, no. 

Because he knows already: Whatever is coursing through Raoul’s system right now, he’s got it too. He just hopes if he ignores it enough, his body will take the hint and follow suit. (Years of nursing school – and Athos – are here to remind him that that’s not how this medical thing works, but he’s got a penchant for ignoring them, too.) Once the traitorous little bumblebee betrays him, Aramis knows what’s coming. So the second Athos’ hand slips far enough away, Aramis slides back beneath the blanket so that Athos can’t read the sticker on his forehead. He can hear Athos’ exasperated scoff through the blanket, and he knows what kind of look Athos is leveling at the lump under said blanket where Athos is estimating his head is.

“Raoul,” Athos says, in that even, deadpan way that is so excellent at hiding his amusement for anyone unfamiliar with the man, “Uncle Aramis right now is not being the most cooperative of patients. This can happen – sometimes, when we don’t feel well, it can be hard to do things. What do you suggest?”

Under the blanket, Aramis rolls his eyes with a certain fondness, though that doesn’t help the headache he can feel building. It’s a blatant play; he can practically hear Athos saying something melodramatic, like think of the example you’re setting for Raoul.

The room is silent except for Aramis’ sniffling while Raoul considers their options. Aramis is starting to sweat underneath the blanket; the fever is beginning to make itself known (Aramis blames the damn bee – he hadn’t felt the fever before), and Aramis is going to have to emerge from his blanket-cocoon sooner rather than later, but like hell is he going to give in.

This is the hill – or rather the blanket pile – he’ll die under.

“Cuddles!” Raoul decides eventually, and not a second too soon. Aramis waits ten full seconds (he counts them) before he pulls the blanket down enough to expose his eyes and nose. 

“I am open to negotiations,” Aramis says loftily to Athos.

“Cuddles always make me feel better,” Raoul reasons to Athos, a proud little smile on his face. “Does Aramis need medicine?”

“No,” Aramis says, at the same time that Athos says, “Yes.”

They glare at each other.

Athos sighs to himself. He loves Aramis down to his bones – the man’s family, and has saved the both of them more times than Athos can count – but looking after him when he’s sick is like trying to bathe an irrationally angry and feral hydrophobic street cat sometimes. 

Raoul breaks the standoff by bodily climbing on top of Aramis and burrowing himself in the blanket cocoon. 

“Join us, Athos,” Aramis drawls, already turning to drape an arm over Raoul, closing his eyes. 

“Only if you take your meds,” Athos says, voice quiet with concern.

Aramis opens one eye and glares balefully at him, but Athos can’t take him seriously as a threat like this, his hair mussed and not quite able to hide his discomfort.

“Aramis, you can be stubborn about it and suffer for a couple of hours and then ask me for them, or we could skip all of that nonsense. I know which I’d prefer, do you?” Aramis looks from Athos to Raoul and back and then shakes his head.

An hour and a half later, Athos is considering asking Raoul to hold Aramis down so Athos can force-feed him the medication Anne had brought with her (Aramis had been so out of sorts he’d slept through the entire visit to the pharmacy) for the inevitable moment when Aramis had decided enough was enough.

“Why won’t he take his medicine, Dad?” Raoul is trying – and somewhat failing – to whisper so as not to wake Aramis up. Athos had slipped onto the couch and pulled Aramis into his lap; he won’t take the meds, but Athos knows that when he’s feverish, he’s prone to nightmares.

Athos also knows that the best way to soothe a sleeping Aramis is to play with his hair, so he’s settled down with a sleepy Raoul on one side, an episode of some horrifically inaccurate medical drama on the TV, and a sleeping Aramis dragged half onto his lap. Athos pauses the show – for how much it skeeves him how many protocols all of these fake doctors are breaking for the sake of drama, he’s actually invested somehow in figuring out this case – and looks from Aramis to Raoul.

“He doesn’t want to be sick, see,” Athos says, voice low, hand playing with Aramis’ hair a little more. “He knows the medicine will help, but he likes to act like he can make himself not sick if he acts like it.”

“Does it work?”

Athos looks down at Aramis, fondness tugging a smile to his lips. In his sleep, Aramis’ distressed whimpers smooth out to soft snores under Athos’ gentle ministrations. “Sometimes,” Athos whispers. “But not always. Sometimes it just makes him stubborn.”

Raoul looks at him, eyes wide. 

“That’s why,” Athos lifts his hand to boop Raoul on the nose, “We must always take our medicine, understood?”

Raoul grins, the gap of his latest lost baby tooth visible, and Athos feels something loosen in his chest.
That peace lasts approximately fifteen minutes.

“Dad!” Raoul calls, concern in his voice. Athos has left them alone for five minutes to make some tea, and he’s not sure what exactly Aramis could have done to cause such alarm – for pity’s sake, he’s not even conscious. But when he gets to the family room door, it all becomes clear: Aramis has started sweating with his fever, shivering no matter how many blankets he’s buried under. 

“Aramis,” Athos says, shaking him awake. It’s a dangerous prospect, but Athos doesn’t care. At this point, he’ll take a black eye or a broken nose if it gets Aramis to take his goddamn medicine. Because Athos will do many things to care for his friend, but an ice bath is out of the question. 

“Raoul,” Athos cautions, “go to the door. I’m going to wake Uncle Aramis, okay?”

Athos gets a good grip under Aramis’ arms and then hauls him up to standing, careful to duck his face against the back of Aramis’ neck so he can’t reach him.

Aramis wakes suddenly, as he always does – comes up swinging for the fences, and Athos has one second of gratitude that he knows Aramis this well before he has to scramble to catch him as Aramis goes dead-weight limp in his arms. 

“Alright, alright, I’m awake,” Aramis slurs, “‘M cold,” and he’s shivering again, and on anyone else, Athos would call that tone petulant, but he knows what the cold means for Aramis, so he drapes two blankets over his shoulders and dumps out a dose of medicine, and hands him a bottle of water. 

“Take the meds. Drink this. Now.”

It’s his Dad Voice, his brooks-no-argument tone, and he knows it’s done its job when Aramis nods at the floor, shoulders slumping as he leans against Athos in defeat.

“Next time,” Athos says levelly, in a tone that doesn’t quite hide his concern, “Raoul is holding you down, and I’m force-feeding you your meds.”

Aramis looks to him, then looks away, but takes his meds obediently, even sticking his tongue out cheekily afterward to show Athos he’d swallowed them. Athos shakes his head, and pulls Aramis to him even as he fondly mutters, “Idiot.”

Chapter Text

Athos isn't exactly sure why children seem to wake up so early, but he would like to make it illegal for anyone to wake up before six o’clock in the morning. Raoul had needed cough syrup at half past five, which is understandable – but apparently after that, Raoul decided that he also needed pancakes. His appetite is returning, and Athos would never deny his son breakfast… but if he could require it at maybe a slightly later time, that would be marvellous. 

Alas, here they are.

Now, Raoul, is quietly napping on the sofa with a full stomach, and Athos is preparing himself a very strong coffee. Aramis, the lucky bastard, has not even left the bed yet. (For a short moment, both Athos and Raoul were questioning whether or not he was okay, because he'd been still in a most un-Aramis way, but an experimental mission to his bedside had confirmed that he’s still loudly snoring, and so Raoul is content that Uncle Aramis is breathing.) Finding himself feeling a little adverse to the idea of food this morning (perhaps because he’s rarely awake this time of morning of his own volition), Athos doesn’t bother eating any of the pancakes he’d made, and instead picks up an apple. That will do -- although he seems only to be able to stomach half of the apple and barely manages all of his coffee before he realizes he’s feeling… strange. There’s a heavy feeling in his head too — he’s guessing lack of sleep has gotten to him; it’s not something he’s unfamiliar with.

Perhaps he will just rest his eyes for a few minutes, he thinks, relaxing into the other end of the sofa from Raoul. It’s not as if there is much else to do, with Raoul sleeping as he is. 

The next thing he knows, someone is climbing up onto his leg and the jolt of it wakes him. He barely opens his eyes, but it’s fairly obvious that Raoul is the climbing culprit. Athos makes a solid attempt to ask him what he needs, but instead of words all that comes out is a raspy sort of mutter. The boy’s brow is immediately furrowing in concern, and he’s very carefully leaning very close to his Dad’s face. 

“Have you got a bad feeling in your throat?” Raoul whispers, and Athos is very glad that he has suddenly found his indoor voice. 

“I am quite alright, Raoul. Are you okay?” He wraps a gentle arm around him, managing to open his eyes properly now. The sun has finally made an appearance, at least; in the red-gold light of it he can just make out a slumped form on the opposite end of the sofa that, after a moment, snores familiarly. He watches him nod, and then point over at the coffee table. 

“We ran out of tissues in the box and I’m kind of hungry. I think Uncle ‘Ramis went to shower and then he came back and he fell asleep on the sofa. But, he used all the tissues before he fell asleep and— and— and I’d like some carrots, please?” How could Athos say no to such polite manners, and such a worried little face? 

A second later he’s pressing a kiss to Raoul’s forehead and scooping him up into his arms, gazing over at Aramis. He doesn’t look any better than yesterday, and his snores don’t sound much better either. For now though, lunch is the priority. The headache and burning in his own throat can be dealt with later, for Raoul needs carrots, and carrots he will get. While he’s at it, he makes up a plate of vegetables for Raoul to snack on as well, adding some small sandwiches and fruit snacks too. It’s important for him to replace the nutrition he’d missed out on the past few days with little to no appetite – and the fact that he’s already biting half of the sandwich before the plate’s fully on the table soothes Athos’ worries indeed.

“Raoul, chew your food carefully . Go and take a seat next to Uncle Aramis, would you? Make sure he’s alright whilst you’re eating.” He reaches to give those curls a little ruffle, earning a quiet giggle, before watching him walk back into the living room, the plate (piled high with food) held with careful hands. 

Athos tries to stay awake – he’s loath to leave Raoul awake by himself, and it seems Aramis is doing his level best to become one with the sofa, if the way he’s burrowed under the blankets is any indication.

He tries, he really does. But as the sun fully rises and the mound of blankets that hides Aramis begins to twitch and move, the pounding in Athos’ head only builds. He forces himself to his feet, drinks glass after glass of water, follows it with some medication that promises quick relief from headaches and curses when the first half-hour passes and his aching head only gets worse.

“Aramis,” he says, shaking the nearest part of the blanket-mound and hoping it’s Aramis he’s grabbing and not just a pile of blanket. “Aramis, look after Raoul. I need to lie down.”

Aramis’ head peeks out from the blanket; he blinks owlishly and then squints in the low light. 

“Athos, you look–” 

“--No better than you do, I suspect.”

Aramis winces. “Migraine?”, and it’s a question, but one he doesn’t need to ask. He barely waits for Athos to confirm before he’s sitting up, the blankets pooling around his waist, and pushing ineffectually at Athos. “Go,” he urges. “We’ll be alright, but you need to lay down.”

Athos stops to lay a heavy hand on Aramis’ shoulder, press a kiss to Raoul’s forehead, and grab the glass of water from the table before he flees for the dark and quiet of his bedroom. 

As his father leaves, Raoul climbs back up on the couch and next to Aramis.

“Is Dad okay?”

Aramis shifts to make some room for Raoul, putting a comforting arm around the boy, puts on his best Nurse Voice, though his throat is still scratchy, and talking hurts. “He will be. He’s just got a migraine. He took his medicine, and he’s going to lie down in the dark and the quiet. Should make him feel better.”

“So we should be quiet,” Raoul says, trying and somewhat failing to whisper.

“For a little,” Aramis allows. “But I know you’re feeling better, so if you want to play, we certainly can.”

Raoul’s eyes light up almost immediately. It’s only been a couple of days, but still, even a couple of days is a long time without a tea party, or the Avengers assembling to save the world -- or the Avengers celebrating saving the world with a tea party.

Aramis should have thought this through. Unfortunately, thinking things through isn’t exactly his strong suit at this particular moment. Neither is staying focused, which isn’t exactly ideal when one is in the midst of delivering an Evil Monologue of Evil to the hapless Avengers.

At least Raoul doesn’t seem to mind that the villain of the week seems pretty prone to the sniffles, or seems to be shivering with fever.

“Alas!” Aramis continues. “The Avengers, at my mercy!”

Raoul lets out a cackle that echoes painfully in Aramis’ ears. “So you think!” The Spider-Man figure in one hand does some physics-defying acrobatics, landing next to the figure in Aramis’ hand, who up until this point was standing triumphantly on the edge of the coffee table. (Why the Avengers are fighting against Skeletor, Aramis isn’t quite certain, but he’s just hazy enough that he’s not sure he’d understand even if Raoul did stop to explain.)

There’s a brief scuffle; in mere moments, Spider-Man and the Winter Soldier have both subdued Skeletor, who puts up a good fight before eventually conceding defeat. It’s taking all Aramis has to follow the thread of the whole situation, but he’s managing, he thinks.

It’s well past midday before Athos stumbles out of his room, looking less worse-for-wear but still pretty rough around the edges. 

He might say something as he passes through the living room on his way to the bathroom, but if he does, it’s not in any language either Raoul or Aramis speak, and anyway Aramis is still struggling to keep up.

By the time Aramis emerges from the bathroom, still wincing at the light, Raoul and Aramis have settled on the couch, and the familiar melody of the Spider-Man theme song is playing.

“Still hurting?” Aramis manages to ask.

Athos doesn’t speak, just hums an agreement.

“Go rest, Athos,” Aramis says again. “We’ll be okay out here.”

It’s a sign of how Athos is feeling that he just nods and takes his leave; Aramis is, at the moment, the more presentable one, but neither of them looks what could be even charitably considered “healthy”, not by a long shot.

Luckily for Aramis, there’s an endless supply of Spider-Man to keep Raoul entertained. (Even more luckily, Raoul seems to remember that he, too, was sick recently enough that he lets Aramis convince him the first time that re-enacting Spider-Man is not, perhaps, the best of ideas at this moment.)

Athos emerges again sometime before dinner arrives; Aramis would normally scoff at the idea of getting food delivered, but now it’s all he can do to make grabby hands at the food. They sit at the coffee-table and eat out of the container, not bothering to grab real utensils or plates. Raoul talks, mostly; Athos and Aramis are both single-mindedly devouring their respective meals. Raoul doesn’t seem too phased by the silence that greets his lovingly detailed explanation of the Spider-Mans stories they’ve watched together. Aramis, for his part, has a sinking feeling of horror imagining Porthos’ reaction to the realization that he actually understands every bit what Raoul’s explaining .

(He can hear the cackling already.)

After dinner they all collapse on the couch; Aramis takes his spot under his blanket-pile, and Raoul curls up against Athos. They put something on the TV – Athos seems to register Aramis’ desperate, silent pleading without even looking at him, and very generously selects something not Spider-Man.

Aramis closes his eyes against the light, trying in vain to tune out the noise of the TV, but really all that does is give him even more space to realize exactly how bad he’s feeling. He’s shivering with the chills, though he can tell he’s sweating under all of these blankets; he’s surprised Athos hasn’t said anything yet, but then he opens his eyes and realizes: Athos is sitting stock-still, thousand-yard staring at the TV, eyes unfocused and breathing shallow.

Raoul is asleep against his chest, one of his father’s arms wrapped around him.

Aramis coughs into his elbow; Athos glances over to him. “Rest, Aramis,” he says, and he sounds exhausted, though he’s spent most of the day futilely sleeping his migraine away.

Raoul wakes, at some point, and both Aramis and Athos are asleep, but that’s okay; one of Raoul’s favorite films is on, so he settles in against his father’s chest, the toes of one of his legs against Aramis’ leg, so he’s in contact with both of them, and watches the TV, grinning. He stays like this for hours, and when the film ends, he

“Daaaaad,” he says, in a tone that Raoul is absolutely certain is incredibly patient, considering who he’s dealing with, “You always say to brush my teeth before bed. If you want me to brush my teeth, I have to be able to reach the sink.”

“I’ll be in there in a minute,” Athos says, though most of the vowels are missing, and his voice is muffled by the couch cushion. “If you don’t want to wait, Uncle Aramis can help you.”

Seconds later, Aramis feels a tug on his sleeve; when he opens his eyes, Raoul’s face is mere inches away.

“Uncle ‘Ramis, can you help me?” A little hand threads through his, and after a moment , Aramis pulls himself off the couch, following Raoul down the hall to the bathroom.

Aramis rustles through the medicine cabinet, eventually finding the toothpaste so he can hand it to Raoul. He sits heavily down on the edge of the tub, closing his eyes against the too-bright lights above the mirror. His head is pounding, and though he feels flushed, he’s shivering, somehow.

“‘Ramis, I can’t reach the sink!”

Aramis startles a bit, then opens his eyes and realizes he’s half-in the bath, forehead pressed against the cool tile of the shower wall. Raoul is standing in front of the cabinet, too short to reach over the top of the sink, let alone up to the holder where his toothbrush is stored. 

“You got this, Raoul. I believe in you, buddy,” Aramis says, though he’s not quite sure if Raoul can actually hear him. He’s not sure there’s anything real beyond the cool smoothness of the shower tile. Everything has a feverish haze to it; the only grounding thing to the world is the tile against his cheek. Aramis’s eyes slide close, and Raoul scoffs, storming out of the bathroom as fast as his little feet can take him.

‘hi auntie constance i stole dads phone he’s sick and uncle ramis is too and i’m not sick anymore but. Dad promised we’d watch the spiderman and have snacks but he’s asleep now and i can’t reach the sink to brush my teeth and uncle ramis is asleep in the shower can u help me’

Constance’s phone dings in the middle of a tense conversation with Richelieu, and she inwardly sighs in relief. Honestly, she kind of stopped listening to him a few minutes ago; from what she’s gathered, he’s making a mountain range out of a molehill, and one single conversation would clear up whatever misunderstanding has occurred. She’s already gotten all the information she needs to fix whatever issues Richelieu has created; really, she just needs him to shut up long enough for her to go resolve it. Richelieu falls silent mid-word as she holds up a finger to fish her phone out of the pocket of her scrubs. It takes her a moment to fully understand the situation, but the second she reads the words I can’t reach the sink , Constance forgets about Richelieu, who’s still standing in front of her (and whose face is currently turning a rather intriguing shade of red at her perceived insolence).

“My apologies, Richelieu,” she says, very un-apologetically, “Family emergency, I have to go.” She doesn’t give him a chance to protest or get a word in edgewise; she’s turned tail and power walked down the hall, already dialing Athos’ number as she heads to her car.

Athos doesn’t answer, but to be honest, that’s not a surprise; going by Raoul’s text, it’s good money Athos is passed out on the couch already. She pulls into the parking lot and is already down the hall by the time her phone rings again; Athos’ name flashes on screen, but she ignores it in favor of digging her spare key out of her purse.

The door clicks open, and she enters, toeing off her shoes and leaving them with her bag by the door.

“Raoul?” She takes a cursory glance around the kitchen and family room; the kitchen is absolute chaos and the family room isn’t much better. Athos is lying half-off the couch, like he’s slid down in his sleep; looking at his face (still drawn and anxious, even unconscious) she’s pretty sure that’s what’s happened.  She tucks a blanket around him, and then goes in search of her newest charge.

Raoul is clinging to dear life to the edge of the counter — apparently having given up on waiting for help in favor of climbing the sink instead. He spies Constance in the mirror and startles, briefly letting go of the sink. Constance’s heart throbs heavy in her chest as she closes the distance between the two, catching him before he can truly lose purchase. 

“Going on a little adventure, were we?” She adjusts his position so he’s sitting on the edge of the counter, his feet swinging over the edge. In answer, Raoul raises an eyebrow and gestures to the tub. Aramis is draped over the side of it, mostly in, but with an arm and a leg hanging over the edge. He’s fallen asleep, it seems, head lolled into one shoulder. If she holds her breath, Constance can hear him snoring, just a little. 

“Oh, you weren’t kidding, he really did fall asleep there,” she says. Raoul just nods, sagely. 

“How about this,” Constance says, keeping her voice bright. “Can you brush your teeth for me, and I’ll wake Uncle Aramis? We’ll get him to bed, and then I’ll read you a bedtime story, hmm?” Raoul grins; Constance sets him up with his toothbrush and toothpaste, and then turns her attention to Aramis. She puts her hands on her hips and sighs. “What am I going to do with you?” Behind her, Raoul says something, muffled by toothpaste and toothbrush.

“No, we are not turning the shower on, Raoul. That would be mean.” But there’s a gleam in her eyes when she leans towards him and murmurs, “Maybe next time, hmm?” 

Instead, she turns back to Aramis, kneeling by him. Waking a healthy Aramis is not a prospect for the faint of heart. Waking a sick Aramis? Constance is pretty sure men have died for less. But she’s Constance d’Artagnan, and if she’d retreated at a challenge she never would’ve made it through medical school or become the lead nurse at the hospital. For God's sake, she tangles with Richelieu on a daily basis; a sleeping and sick Aramis is a walk in the park.

After a careful warning to Raoul, Constance puts a hand on Aramis’ shoulder and gently, softly calls his name. It’s a testament to how sick he must be that he instinctively curls into her touch, rather than lash out. 

She puts a bare hand to his neck, to his forehead. He’s burning up. “Aramis,” she says, shaking him lightly. 

He mutters something in Spanish, but otherwise doesn’t seem to actually wake up. 

“Shit,” she says quietly, forgetting Raoul’s presence for a moment. 

“Raoul,” she says, turning to the boy still perched on the sink. “First off, never repeat the word i just said, understood?” 

She waits for him to nod. 

“Your teeth all brushed? Ready for a story and bed?” 

Raoul nods; she ruffles his hair a bit, grinning at him. She picks him up and settles him on the floor, before crouching down to meet his eye line. 

“I’m going to need help getting Aramis to bed. I'm going to call over Uncle Charlie, is that okay?” Raoul nods, grinning.

“Great. I’ll go call him; I need you to go get ready for bed. Figure out which story you want and get yourself under the covers, yeah?” Raoul nods once again, and then leaves the bathroom. 

Constance fishes her phone out of her pocket and dials d’Artagnan’s number. He answers before the first ring finishes; there’s a rustling and then she can hear his voice. 

“Hey babe, how’s work?”

Constance snorts. 

“Work’s over, d’Art, have you checked a clock lately?”

There’s more rustling, then a soft curse as he realizes how late it is. 

“Damn, I didn’t realize—I’m on call, just sitting here with some popcorn and shitty reality TV—“

Constance smiles to hear it.

“Wait, if you’re not at work—“

“Raoul texted. Athos is sick, and Aramis, too. Said he needed help reaching the sink to brush his teeth.”

D’Art inhales roughly. “He okay?”

“Oh, Raoul’s fine. Aramis and Athos are a mess, though.”

“Are they ever not?” Constance snickers. 

“d’Artagnan, Aramis fell asleep in the shower .”

He snorts in amusement, and Constance knows already that Aramis isn’t going to live this down. “How bad is it?”

“He’s feverish,” Constance says. “I tried to wake him but he just mumbled at me in Spanish.”

“Shit,” d'Artagnan says. “You need help?”

“Could you?”

There’s rustling, the clink of keys. “Be there in ten,” he says. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” she says, and then they hang up. Constance turns to Aramis, still unconscious in the tub, and shakes her head, a small smile on her face.

True to his word, d’Artagnan lets himself into Athos’ apartment ten minutes later. He knocks on the bathroom door before coming in, and Constance sees — the bag of popcorn, still in one hand. “Unbelievable,” she says, getting to her feet and snatching the bag from him before shoving a handful of popcorn in her mouth.

“What, you prefer I left it there? You know I can’t eat it if it’s left out for too long, it gets all gross,” he whines, with what Constance is sure he will deny is a pout on his face.

She rolls her eyes, fond. 

“Just get Aramis to bed, will you?” He snorts, before waving a hand experimentally in front of Aramis’ face. Constance still remembers the time D’Art had shown up in the emergency room with what was almost a broken nose on account of an ill-advised attempt to wake Aramis. But he’s out, enough to reassure d’Art, who just. Hauls Aramis over one shoulder in a fireman’s carry, like he’s a sack of potatoes, or something, Constance isn’t sure what people haul around in sacks these days—

“Get the door?” d’Artagnan asks, a little pointedly, and she startles out of her reverie. Then she’s moving in a rush to open doors and push toys out of his path. d’Artagnan deposits Aramis on Athos’ bed none too gently — he kind of just. drops him, to be honest — but then he’s turning to her, is whispering in the low light coming from the family room, “Athos? Raoul?” 

“In the living room. Partially on the couch, mostly not. Raoul was getting ready for bed.” d’Artagnan appraises her for a moment.

“Tend to Raoul, I’ll lug Athos back here.” 

Constance nods, and goes to find Raoul. 

He’s picked a book and is waiting for her in bed. “Is uncle Charlie here?” Constance sits on the bed next to him, takes the book, cards her hand through Raoul’s hair. 

“Yes. He’s just making sure Uncle RRamis and your dad get to bed. It’s much more comfortable than sleeping in a bathtub or the couch, don’t you think?” Through the door, Constance can hear muffled voices, and then someone groaning. Raoul grins and nods.

“Do you think we could wait for uncle Charlie to start the story? That way you can both do the voices.”

Constance grins at him. “Tell you what. I’ll tuck you in, okay, and then we’ll wait for him.”

Once Raoul is tucked in, blankets up to his chin like he prefers, it’s only a few moments before d’Artagnan makes an appearance at the door. Raoul makes to get out of bed, but d’Art closes the space between them in a couple of steps, reaching out to hug Raoul before he can extricate himself from the covers. 

The story is one Athos has bought as a second-hand shop when Raoul was younger; it’s worn and well-loved, and though Raoul can probably recite it word for word by memory, it seems the magic of it hasn’t dimmed at all. Constance and d’Art do the voices of different characters as though they’re Shakespearean actors, not impromptu babysitters; Raoul giggles at all the right parts and is properly sleepy by the time the princess rescues the prince and both live happily ever after. Constance and D’art both kiss his forehead goodnight, and then they retreat to the family room. 

“This is a mess,” Constance says, already starting to fold blankets and tidy up.

“Have you seen the kitchen? It’s like a pack of wild animals got in there.”

“How are the boys?”

“Aramis woke up long enough to scold me in Spanish. Something about not disturbing the goats? I think? Athos was a little more coherent but was still half-asleep. They’ll be hurting tomorrow, but they should be okay.”

Constance is nodding, but her gaze keeps going to the kitchen. 

“You want to clean it up, don’t you?”

Constance looks sheepish, but nods. “You don’t have to stay, I know you’re on call—“

He closes the distance between them, wraps his arms around her. She feels him press a kiss to her forehead. “I might be on call, but right now you need me. I’m here, just tell me what to do.”

She kisses him, just the once, as thanks. They share a soft smile.

“Right,” she says. “Let’s go see what kind of chaos they’re wrecked.” 

Once the kitchen and living room chaos has been tidied, d’Artagnan is sure to leave a note upon the fridge for one of the boys to wake up to: You owe Constance a dinner. A nice one, mind you. Somewhere that doesn’t offer kids crayons with their menu. 

He does end up getting called in to work, although Constance insists on sleeping over— Athos has the tendency to sleepwalk when he gets feverish, and it’s a fact that they have all learned the hard way – which is a polite way of saying they’ve all had the misfortune of getting spooked by a sleepwalking, feverish, stumbling Athos at three AM. And so, she sets herself up a little makeshift bed on the sofa, where she’ll be sure to hear if either Athos and Aramis or Raoul needs her, and shuts her eyes. She’s got a feeling this may be a long and interesting night – she’ll need whatever sleep she can get.

Chapter Text

Both Aramis and Athos are sitting limply on the sofa, with vacant sort of expressions on their faces – but after the night they’d had, full of nightmares and sleepwalking and sleep talking and at least one instance of Aramis somehow managing to roll of the couch without even waking up, Constance doesn’t blame them for not moving any more than is absolutely necessary. She’d let them sleep in until almost midday, but they needed food and water, and knowing them, they’d never bother with such things if she wasn’t around to (emptily) threaten to slap some sense into them, so she’d woken them two hours ago. It had taken all of that amount of time for both of them to eat a small amount of fruit, drink some water and miraculously manage to shower without anything drastic going wrong (or anyone else falling asleep again). 

(Constance is simply glad they could shower unassisted, though she’d been fully prepared to call in the big guns if needed; there were still some things she still point-blank refuses to do, and anything involving the boys and showers was included.) 

(She hadn’t called in the big guns for the showers, but when the silence stayed too stifled and lifeless for too long, she’d changed her mind. She could use some joy right around now, Raoul could use a playmate, and the boys deserved at least some break from the monotony of illness.)

Raoul is happily playing with his Lego’s, his gaze traveling towards the door as somebody walks in. 

“Uncle Porthos!” He yells loudly, causing the two weary adults on the sofa to grimace in pain and groan in stereo. Raoul grins, running towards Porthos’ open arms and being lifted onto a cuddle the moment he reaches Porthos.

A chuckle falls from Porthos’ mouth as he ruffles the boy’s hair, affectionately. “How’s my favourite little Spiderman doing, eh?” He wanders further into the room, casting his eyes over towards the two men slumped on the sofa together. Raoul giggles in his ear when he catches sight of them.

“Well ain’t you two a sight for sore eyes?” Porthos chuckles lowly once again, crouching down so that he can carefully set Raoul back onto the floor. 

Hands empty of squirming and now-excited Raoul, Porthos wanders over to Aramis, reaching into his hoodie pocket and handing him a small box. “Found one still in date in the medicine cabinet, so you’re welcome. Just in case you need it.” His voice turns scolding, for a moment, but there’s still that undercurrent of warmth threaded through his words. “‘Cos I know you didn’t bother to search for it yourself.”

Aramis blushes, turns his head away to hide the way his lips twitch, and Porthos turns back to Raoul again, a smile growing on his own face.

“Who wants pancakes?” Seeing Raoul’s eyes light up, he raises his hand. “But—! Indoor voices for requests, please.” He lowers his hands and laughs as Raoul halts himself seconds before yelling. 

“Me, please!” It’s whisper-yelled. “Chocolate chips and sliced bananas, please!” The boy is already running into the kitchen, not even waiting to see if Porthos is following, and Porthos is hurrying after him to tell him to slow himself down before he gets too tired. The apartment is soon filled with the smell of cooking pancakes and sweet fruit; and it’s even enough to wake Aramis up a little bit more.

Porthos doesn’t jump when two arms wrap around his waist and he feels curls tickling his neck. A soft chuckle leaves him – he’ll let Aramis stay there… for now. Porthos has had enough practice that he can manage to cook with someone snuggled against him for a little while, or at least until Raoul’s plate is fixed up. 

“Here,” comes Constance’s voice; as if by magic, she sneaks around Porthos to help him plate it all up. “Let me — Raoul, it’s almost ready! Go wash your hands and take a seat at the table behind the sofa — Ah, walking!”

She chides him gently, and watches as he leaves.

“Want me to make one for you?” Constance’s voice is light, as though she hasn’t pulled an all-nighter looking after Aramis and Athos, and Porthos thinks Constance’s heart is too kind for her own good. He shakes his head a little. 

“I’ll make one for you ,” he corrects her, and grins a little more as her stomach growls. “I’m used to ‘aving Aramis like this. I’ll make you one, small one for Aramis and Athos… then one for me. Is Charles at work?” He pours some more batter into the pan, shifting his stance a little and earning a quiet huff of protest from Aramis, which he shushes with an equally quiet, comforting hmmm .

“He is,” she responds, an eyebrow raising at Aramis’ indignant behaviour. She picks up Raoul’s plate, pausing their conversation for a moment whilst bringing it to him out in the living room, but she’s speaking almost before she’s back in the room, knowing Porthos can still hear her. “He’ll be off shift in a few hours I think… he’s been talking to student doctors a lot this week, and on call when he’s not — it’s been a bit hectic. Covering shifts and things like that. His schedule is always wonky.” She continues upon her return, moving to start cutting up more fruit with a little frown on her face. 

“Life of a doctor, eh?” Porthos hums, turning the pancake over with minimal movement; so that Aramis can stay comfortable. The pancake is plated and Constance adds strawberries and mango to the side, smiling at him as he waggles his eyebrows at her. 

“Thank you,” she says, properly grinning now. “I’ll go keep an eye on the others. You’ll be alright in here?” She casts her gaze upon them both, wondering to herself if Aramis has just fallen asleep standing up (it’s not like it hasn’t happened before, after all) — her question is soon answered as he move from his Porthos shoulder pillow to cough roughly into his own elbow.

After Porthos’ reassurances that he’ll be fine, though Aramis will have undoubtedly have exposed him to the plague, she makes her way to sit at the table with Raoul. 

After a short while and a small commotion coming from the kitchen, Porthos emerges with a bowl of fruit and cut up pancakes, and sets it down on the coffee table for Athos to eat whenever he wakes up from his nap. Raoul is tucked under one of his Dad’s arms, fast asleep and using his chest as a pillow; clearly he’s already eaten his food and succumbed to the sleepiness that’s been evading him. It’s quite an adorable sight, Porthos thinks, before he heads back into the kitchen to fetch his own plate, wander over to the second sofa and balance it on the edge of the cushion… because he knows as he hears the sound of Aramis’ bare feet on the carpet that he’ll need room for Aramis to lie down and use Porthos’ chest as a pillow too. 

…The things he does for this man, honestly . It seems Aramis is happy with the situation though, as a few minutes later he’s tucked under Porthos’ arm in much the way that Raoul is with Athos – though Raoul has the good grace to avoid snoring loudly in Athos’ ear, and Aramis seems to have missed this memo. 

Porthos glances up at Constance, and the pair share an amused yet fond glance— as if to say They’re idiots, but they’re our idiots . Quietly, he lets her know that he’d managed to make Aramis eat some fruit before they both came back into the living room, and that was the cause of the small commotion that she may have heard. 

Porthos eats his breakfast, one-handedly, with the ease of someone who learned how to long ago. Constance doesn’t want to know what kind of damage their little scuffle has done to the kitchen, especially after she’d worked for an hour to get it clean (and seriously, Athos, how had they managed to get spaghetti sauce on the ceiling she will never know – and to be honest, maybe she’s better off not knowing, at this point), but at least everyone’s been fed and hydrated.

By the time Porthos has finished his breakfast, and Constance has cleared away the empty plates, Raoul is stirring, and Athos has slid down to a wildly uncomfortable-looking angle.

“Raoul,” she says, “Do you fancy a bit of fresh air?”

He’s sleepy, still, but the prospect of going outside is enough to have him wriggling out of his dad’s grip. 

“I got it,” Porthos says at Constance’s look, deftly maneuvering himself out from under Aramis. Aramis whines a little, but Porthos slips a pillow under him, and Aramis relaxes again. Porthos cards a hand through Aramis’ hair before turning to grip Athos by the shoulder.

Athos wakes instantly, startling a little bit, and while Porthos convinces him to get to bed before he cricks his neck or pinches a nerve sleeping at that angle, Constance and Raoul slip out the door to the balcony.

It’s quiet here, and peaceful; there are some plants on one side (courtesy Aramis and his probably-against-the-lease little garden of culinary herbs), and some seats. Constance sits in one, and when Raoul raches his hands up, she lifts him into her lap, grinning at the way he curls up against her.

They stay there for only a few minutes before the door opens and Porthos appears. 

“He’s in bed,” he says, voice low. “Probably be out for hours yet. ‘Mis is still passed out, too. Should be quiet for a little,” he says, grinning.

Raoul reaches out a hand, and Porthos takes it, grinning. “How’s the little man of the house?”

“Better,” Raoul says. “Are Dad and Uncle ‘Ramis gonna be okay?”

“Are they gonna be okay ,” Porthos echoes, like there's no doubt about it. “You know them, Raoul, they’re stubborn as f–” Constance sends him a look over Raoul’s head – “foxes,” he finishes, but that’s clearly not his first thought. “They just need some time, but they’ll be right as rain soon enough, you’ll see.”

Raoul hums, thinking about this new information. Before he can dwell too long on it, though, Porthos grins at him, leans forward a little. "Hey," he says, "You wanna help me braid Aramis' hair while he's asleep?"

Constance snorts inelegantly, and Raoul grins and follows where Pothos leads.

Chapter Text

A few hours later – Athos still unconscious in his room – there’s a knock on the door. Aramis – still a little groggy, though he’s apparently awake on some level – looks up from his Porthos-pillow, looking around the room like he’s counting. 
“Who’s’at?” he says, eloquently. “Innit everyone here already?”
Porthos does the math – “No, d’Art’s not here yet,” he says, one hand tangled in Aramis’ hair.
“He’s got a key,” Constance points out. The knock echoes again, a little more frantic.
Constance and Porthos share a look, clearly having a silent and rapid conversation via eye-contact alone  – Porthos gestures unsubtly at Aramis, draped over half of him, and raises an eyebrow, and Constance rolls her eyes and glares at him fondly before getting up.
It is d’Art, which has Constance frowning in suspicion. “You forget your key or something,” she says, a grin twisting at the corners of her mouth.
D’Artagnan takes a moment to react before he puts his head into his hands and leans against Constance’s shoulder, groaning. “I’m an idiot,” he says. “It’s in my pocket.”
She laughs, patting him on the shoulder. “You’ve had a long night,” she says. “Come in, we’re going to have dinner soon.”
D’Artagnan lets her herd him into the living room, letting her steer him to the couch with minimal resistance. 
“Are you sure you’re alright?” She keeps her voice low; it looks like Aramis is finally dozing off, and she’s got a few strong words ready for the fool who wakes him up now.
D’Art drops his things on the coffee table, none too quietly and then, when Constance chastises him with a look , sits on the couch to struggle to take his shoes off.
Aramis kicks him.
D’Art turns around, instinctively ready for a fight.
Aramis says something decisive – or at least seems to think so. When d’Artagnan just raises an eyebrow at him in wordless challenge, Aramis looks up at Porthos.
Porthos stares back at him, brows furrowed, before his expression clears.
“You’re on ‘is inhaler box,” he says, much more eloquently than Aramis can manage.
“Wha–” D’Artagnan protests for a moment, but then stops, his expression clearing, and pulls the box out from under him. He stands to put the inhaler on the table, and then lays out on the couch.
Except that Aramis is already on the couch.
Which means that d’Artagnan really just collapses on top of Aramis. Aramis doesn’t seem to care much at first, but Porthos groans at the sudden shifting of weight.
When d’Art doesn’t move, though, Aramis shoves at him weakly. 
D’Art still doesn’t move, though.
Aramis says something unintelligible in Spanish that seems to amount to a rebuke in d’Art’s general direction before wrapping his arms around Porthos even tighter.
D’Art just wraps an arm around Aramis. Aramis shakes him off.
“Geroff,” Aramis mutters. “Porthos’ mine, I was here first.”
Porthos pats Aramis on the shoulder, hoping he’ll stand down. “Easy, ‘Mis,” he cautions. “We can share the couch, yeah?”
“Constance,” d’Artagnan grouses, “Why’s the couch talkin’,” and it’s somehow not a question. Constance just stares at him. 
Aramis shoves at d’Art again, and it’s only Porthos’ reflexes that keeps them from tumbling over the edge of the couch.
Porthos, one arm barely around Aramis’s torso and the other hand with a death-grip on the back of the couch, exchanges a desperate look with Constance. 
“Help,” he whines.
“I cannot believe ,” she says, voice low, “that you lot are responsible for taking care of children .”
Aramis stops trying to pitch d’Artagnan off the couch to turn to Constance, betrayal in his eyes.
Porthos uses his lapse in concentration to wrap an arm around Aramis more securely.
“Constance,” Porthos pleads, but she’s already out of her chair. She can hear Porthos’ voice as she rummages in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, looking for–
“Constance!” His voice is frantic, but not urgent, so she grabs what she needs and hurries back.
Aramis and d’Artagnan are wrestling ineffectually, and Constance sneaks in between them to slap a bumblebee-shaped fever sticker on both their heads.
They still immediately, twin shocked expressions on their faces, and Constance raises an eyebrow at them as the stickers turn red to indicate a fever.
Porthos takes advantage of their stillness to re-situate his threadbare grip on the couch.
“I thought so,” she hums to herself. “You both are absolute children when you’re sick.”
Aramis, always the picture of composure and elegance, sticks his tongue out at her.
“Hey,” d’Artagnan says, unfortunately choosing that exact moment to simultaneously reposition himself and defend his wife’s honor; Aramis catches a knee to the ribs and accidentally bites his tongue, choking as the wind is knocked out of him. 
Aramis jerks back into Porthos, his head catching Porthos’ cheek as he flails. Porthos hisses in pain, instinctively letting go of the back of the couch to haul Aramis away from d’Artagnan.
Of course, as soon as Porthos lets go, Aramis is set free from Porthos’ grip, and uses the momentum to fully shove d’Artagnan off the couch.
Porthos has a split-second view of d’Artagnan’s comically wide eyes before he’s instinctively throwing an arm out to try to catch – one of them? Both of them? He’s not really sure –
d’Artagnan clings to Aramis, Porthos’ arm caught between them, and they tumble unceremoniously off the couch, each of them yelling.
There’s a span of ten full seconds of silence and groaning before Constance cackles . 
The boys look at her, indignation writ into their features, and she’s doubled-over from laughing, tears running down her cheeks.
Her giggles are only just beginning to subside (and the boys are only just beginning to try to extricate themselves) when Raoul comes bounding in from the hall.
“Is everything okay? I heard yelling!”
Constance wipes her tears away, still trying and mostly failing to contain her giggles. “Everything’s fine, Raoul. I just appear to have married an entire gaggle of children,” she says.
Raoul, with all the blind faith and unshakeable confidence only a child can have, launches into the pile of his uncles, secure in the knowledge that they will catch him. d’Art only barely manages to catch him in time, and Raoul’s elbows might slam into his side, but Raoul is grinning at them, and d’Art can’t help but grin back.
“Hi, Uncle Charlie,” Raoul greets politely. “You look like you don’t feel so good… I’ll be the Doctor!” He is most definitely feeling better; he’s already making his way over to his toy corner and fetching the Doctor's kit. By the time he returns, the trio on the floor have made their way back up and onto the sofa with a chorus of grumbling.
“Here it is! I’ll tap your knee very carefully to check it is working…” He takes out the pair of pretend glasses and puts them on, proceeding to tap d’Artagnan on the knee with the mallet; d’Art’s entire leg twitches obediently.
“It works! I’ll get you a big medicine now for your head warmth.” He drops the doctor-gear and runs off, only to return holding the spoon and a cup from his play-kitchen up to d’Artagnan, so that he can “take” the medicine. 
“Do you want a snack? Or a drink?”
“I’d like a drink,” d’Artagnan mutters, though when Raoul turns to him his eyes go wide, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
“Auntie Constance!” Raoul calls out. “Can you help me? Uncle Charlie wants a drink!”
Constance, a mere three feet away, grins a little wickedly, coming up to ruffle Raoul’s hair. “He does, does he?” D’Artagnan flushes, looking at the ground, mouth moving soundlessly as he sputters to find any kind of retort.
“Let’s get him some water, then,” she says, kissing d’Art on the forehead, and then holding her hand out for Raoul to take.
Porthos at least has the grace to wait until they’ve both left the room to lean over so he’s in d’Art’s space and murmur, “You know she’ll never let you live that down, right?”
Aramis, who had missed the whole exchange in favor of making sure his inhaler hadn’t been crushed too badly, runs a hand through his hair.
Or tries to, at least.
“Porthos,” he said, voice low, a warning Porhos has rarely heeded. “Why is there a braid in my hair?”
Porthos snorts. “ A braid?”
The look of utter vengeance on Aramis’ face is quelled by Constance and Raoul’s return — or more specifically, Raoul’s joyous exclamation of “Uncke ‘Ramis! Do you like your hair? Me ‘n’ Porthos did it!”
Aramis directs his attention to Raoul, very maturely ignoring Portho's snort of amusement. “It’s a — bit of a change, but I do like it, thank you.”
“Good! ‘Cause Dad always says to do good things for people, ‘specially if they don’t feel good, ‘n’ since you didn’t feel so good I thought it would make you feel a little better!”
Aramis smiles at him, warmly.
Constance makes a small noise, ruffling his hair. Raoul grins at her, but his gaze is turned towards Aramis a moment later, and he picks up the box with anñeanis’ inhaler. “Your breathing medicine for you,” he tells him sincerely. Aramis smile grows wider — such a small soul, yet with so much care already inside. He thinks back to when the toddler had first moved into the apartment block with his Father, and how timid and afraid he had been, hiding behind Athos at every sudden move or sound, though his father was but the echo of a stranger. How Athos was at his wit’s end, completely lost and terrified to make the wrong move, to fall back on old patterns, to create the kind of world for his son that he’d fought so desperately to escape himself… and now look at them. 
They’ve made something — they’ve built something. Together. A family, and a home, and a world where they can live and breathe and be , and no matter what there is always someone to care for them, someone to care for. They’re a chaotic family unit and he wouldn’t change any of it for the world.

It just so happens that Athos, having woken up and heard the commotion of his brothers and deciding to go investigate, is currently leaning against the hallway wall and gazing across at his son handing Aramis his medicine, thinking the exact same thing. He wouldn’t dare change his family for the world – it’s his , and it’s theirs , and it’s home .
And right now, it's all they need.