Chapter Text
D’Artagnan bitterly regrets telling the captain he could handle this.
All of them insist that they can walk perfectly well, and he doesn’t trust any one of them not to keel over. When they make it to the outer door Athos flinches violently against the light and staggers sideways; Aramis reaches for him only to shudder when the movement rubs wrong against one of his many bruises.
D’Artagnan is carrying all of their gear because he refused to let them buckle the extra weight back on, and as sleep-deprived and saddle-sore as he is, he’s really feeling the strain. He isn’t going to complain, though. He doesn’t think they realise how awful they all look, out here in the daylight the bruises are developed dark, and he’s not seen Porthos look that grey in the face since the time he was hit with an axe and nearly lost his arm.
Treville has rallied the rest of the musketeers and a handful of rebel prisoners, including the man d’Artagnan knocked out after he fired that pistol in the cell. Athos gives him a calmly withering look as he trudges past. Porthos glares at him and issues a soft threatening grunt that makes the man squeak and flinch comically. Aramis favours him with a predatory smile. D’Artagnan sighs, and makes bets with himself over which of them is going to pass out first.
They wait sitting on the wall by the horses while the Captain and the others deal with the prisoners and make the site secure. When Treville makes his way over to them he sees them shifting and snaps ‘Don’t stand up. For God’s sake.’
Athos looks sullenly uncomfortable at the idea of reporting to the captain while slumped on a wall, but Porthos and Aramis just lean against one another, tired and relieved.
‘Report,’ Treville sighs, mouth tightening as he takes in their bruises.
Athos clears his throat. ‘We were ambushed three leagues north of Reims. We were outnumbered, so d’Artagnan rode for back up. We retreated into the trees. They overtook us.’ He casts a sideways look at Porthos and Aramis to see if they’re going to dispute or add anything. Aramis smiles wearily and Porthos shrugs. ‘The rest you know,’ Athos concludes in the same flat hoarse tone.
Treville raises an eyebrow at him. ‘Injuries?’
Athos puffs out his cheeks and gives his comrades another sideways glance.
‘Athos took a musket stock to the head,’ Porthos cuts in. He tips his head towards Aramis, who is all but dozing on his shoulder. ‘He broke something when his horse went down, and they worked him over pretty good in there too. I got cut on the arm, but it’s stopped bleeding.’
Treville nods, folding his arms. ‘I’m putting all of you on leave for a week. Take your time getting back to Paris. You too, d’Artagnan.’
D’Artagnan looks up in surprise, blinks, and nods. Treville gives him a serious look. ‘You did well today.’
He gapes for a moment, and stops when he realises that Porthos is watching him in amusement. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ he croaks.
Treville looks back to Athos.
‘There’s an inn in the village to the south. Go and get some rest, for God’s sake.’ He frowns at Aramis, who still hasn’t spoken. ‘Do you need a physician?’
Aramis blinks and achily rouses himself from Porthos’ shoulder. He gives Athos a critical look, and twists his mouth unhappily as he looks back at Porthos. ‘Possibly,’ he rasps; the water clearly hasn’t done much for his raw throat. ‘My kit was in the saddlebags.’
‘If we can recover your horses, I’ll have someone bring it to you. And I’ll send a physician to you at the inn.’ He gives them one more collective glare. ‘Dismissed.’
*
Getting to the inn is painful and difficult, even with the old cart that someone finds behind the house and rigs up for them. Athos drives it, squinting against the light, and Porthos sits beside him in case the head injury makes him veer off the road and land them all in the ditch. Aramis and d’Artagnan sit in the back, and Aramis distracts himself from the way the bumpy road makes his broken bones rattle by flicking bits of straw from the cart bed at his young comrade every time he turns away.
‘He’s not fit to be driving,’ d’Artagnan hisses to him conspiratorially. D’Artagnan is horribly agitated over the state the three of them are in; it’s making Aramis exhausted watching him.
‘It’s not far,’ he croaks, smiling at him placidly.
It isn’t far, but his bones hurt so badly by the time they arrive that it’s all he can do to keep breathing while d’Artagnan helps him stagger off the cart and into the taproom.
The innkeeper looks at Aramis’ battered form and squares his shoulders at them. ‘I don’t want any trouble,’ he says.
D’Artagnan grips tighter at Aramis’ waist and elbow. ‘We are king’s musketeers, and we require shelter,’ he says, anger quivering in his tone. Aramis hears the door slam as Athos and Porthos join them, and the man looks from one to the other, notes the pauldrons and the weapons and folds his arms, nodding slowly. ‘Musketeers, eh? You here for the rebels?’
‘They’re dealt with,’ d’Artagnan says flatly.
The innkeeper considers this. ‘Good riddance,’ he says eventually. ‘Bad for business. I’ve a room upstairs, it’s on the house.’
Aramis is vaguely aware of d’Artagnan thanking the innkeeper and asking him for food and drink, and then they shuffle together for the stairs. Getting up the stairs is a miserable experience: d’Artagnan keeps apologising to him and this is ridiculous, there’s nothing wrong with his legs, but every step sends shocks through his ribs.
D’Artagnan deposits him on the edge of one of the beds and goes to take an armful of blankets and firewood from the innkeeper. The others stagger in, holding on to one another for balance. Aramis hauls his head up and watches them make their way across the room.
‘Porthos, come here and take your shirt off,’ he manages to croak out of his abused throat. It’s irritating how pathetic he sounds; Porthos gives him a look that’s half amused and half worried, but he comes over obediently and starts peeling off his jacket.
‘Look like shit,’ Porthos tells him casually, throwing his jacket over the end of the bed.
Aramis grins at him and gives him the finger, and starts picking the sleeve of Porthos’ shirt off the dried blood on his arm. ‘You seeing straight, Athos?’ he calls – or tries to, it comes out raspy and thin.
Athos grunts something incomprehensible and flops down opposite them, dropping his head into his hands. ‘Physician’ll be here soon,’ he mumbles.
‘Well, he can look when I’ve finished,’ Aramis croaks, eyes on the livid cut in Porthos’ arm. ‘You’re lucky this isn’t infected.’
‘Yeah, lucky me,’ Porthos grumbles.
D’Artagnan finishes setting the fire and sits beside Athos, passing him a glass of wine. It won’t help his headache, but none of them comment as he takes a deep swallow.
*
Aramis insists on cleaning and stitching the cut before the physician even arrives, arguing in his ravaged voice that it’s been left untended long enough, and they all know he can do it better than most physicians anyway. He sends d'Artagnan to requisition needle and thread from the innkeeper and then sits at his side, intent and focused, to work on it. Still, Porthos would have stopped him if he thought he could, because he’s all hunched up around his fucked-up shoulder and breathing funny on those battered ribs.
The physician arrives about an hour later, little bearded man with spectacles and a leather case; he looks legitimate. He gives Aramis’ stitches an approving look and gives Porthos some noxious-smelling mixture to put on his arm, and then he peers at Athos’ head and into his eyes and tells him not to drink any more wine, advice which will be soundly ignored.
When he finally turns to Aramis, he asks him to take his coat and shirt off and it quickly becomes apparent that he can’t. Porthos helps him, shuffling behind him on the bed, pulling it off the good arm first so it can be eased very gently off the bad one. He’s behind him so he doesn’t see the state of him immediately, but d’Artagnan’s eyes go huge and round and he splutters, ‘Christ, Aramis.’ Athos is frowning at him – not the disgruntled headache-induced, I’m-surrounded-by-idiots frown that he’s been wearing all day, but a wince of self-recrimination.
‘It looks worse than it is,’ Aramis croaks.
‘Fuck you, Aramis,’ Porthos tells him gently, shuffling back to let the physician get to him.
Aramis sits fairly patiently and doesn’t react much as the doctor prods at his shoulder and his ribs, but when the man suggests bleeding to bring the swelling down he snaps, ‘No.’ He looks up, and adds, more gently, ‘Thank you.’
The doctor looks to Athos for confirmation because he clearly has decided he’s in charge of them, and Athos says harshly, ‘If he says no, you’re not bleeding him.’
Disgruntled, the doctor says all he can suggest is wrapping it in cold cloths and resting, and grumpily adds that the cracked rib could easily puncture his lung if he doesn’t rest it properly. ‘And there’ll be nothing anyone can do for you, if that happens.’
‘What a nice man,’ Aramis says, once he’s left.
D’Artagnan follows him down the stairs and comes back with a bucket of cold water from the well, and with Aramis directing he wraps the purple-mottled shoulder with wet rags. Porthos watches Aramis and wonders how bad he already was before he decided to make himself a target for that sadist.
The captain drops in himself just before dusk on his way back to Paris, bearing Aramis’ saddlebag with his various herbs and concoctions.
‘I gather you frightened the doctor away,’ he says, wearing the long-suffering expression that Porthos, Athos and Aramis are very familiar with.
Aramis smiles innocently.
‘Fine then. Take care of one another. I’ll see you in a week.’
Porthos salutes that. They’ll take care of one another. It’s what they always do.
*
They sleep, top to toe, sharing blankets and careful around one another’s injuries. Or at least, Porthos and Aramis sleep. Athos stares at the ceiling and broods and listens to them breathe.
It’s a while before he realises that d’Artagnan isn’t sleeping either. He thinks about that, and thinks around the throb in his head that both of them brooding is making the room stuffy, and eventually he hauls himself into a sitting position and meets his eyes in the dim light.
‘Stop thinking,’ he says quietly. ‘You’re keeping me awake.’
D’Artagnan smirks at the ceiling. ‘My apologies.’
He sits in silence for a while and listens to his two friends breathing in the next bed.
‘Sorry I left you in that fight,’ d’Artagnan whispers. Athos blinks at him in astonishment. For a moment he can’t think of any response at all.
‘We’d all be dead if you hadn’t,’ he says flatly.
D’Artagnan wrinkles his nose. ‘I know. It just – didn’t feel very honourable.’
Athos considers that, frowning at the ceiling. They often forget how new to this d’Artagnan still is, and how it actually wasn’t that long ago he was a child hearing stories about the gallantry of the musketeers. And although they’re all recovering now, he recognises that the events of the last two days have been pretty grim, and they haven’t given much thought to d’Artagnan in the midst of all this.
‘You saved all our lives, d’Artagnan,’ he says, just stating facts, without inflection. ‘We’re good at looking out for one another, but the fact remains that if it had just been the three of us, we would probably all be dead.’
D’Artagnan shifts awkwardly on the mattress.
‘It could happen again any day,’ Athos adds thoughtfully. ‘You don’t always get the option of doing the honourable thing.’
D’Artagnan thinks about that, and then laughs quietly. ‘You’re terrible at cheering people up,’ he says.
Athos snorts. ‘I’m aware.’
He listens to d’Artagnan’s breath even out and lengthen. His head aches, but he trusts that it’ll be better in the morning.