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Chapter Text

Awareness came slowly, the darkness around him abating gradually from a deep, endless sea of black to a cloud of muted grays and browns, until, finally, he clawed his way out of unconsciousness proper and blinked his eyes open to face the world. 

His senses returned to him, too; a beat-up plaster wall close to his face, stained and cracked here and there. The glow of a candle coming from  somewhere behind him, and the balmy night breeze drifting in from an open window. Warm, scratchy blankets and a familiar lumpy mattress beneath him, and voices -soft, whispered words in tones as familiar as the act of breathing itself. 

Aramis blinked, memory still fuzzy, and forced his addled mind to focus on the minute details on the wall in front of him, counting the stains of time on it, the cracks, but his eyes kept fluttering shut and- God, he felt so tired, and all he wanted was to return to the emptiness, the quiet of sleep… 

The pain came, then, as gradually as consciousness had, and yet still abruptly enough to shock him out of that infernal sluggishness; fire raged across his back, his shoulders throbbing, his wrists stiff and aching and- trying to breathe hurt, his rib cage stretching and bones loosely grinding against each other, his head pounding- 

Anne. 

Her face flashed in his mind's eye like the flare of a matchstick being lit within a dark room: her eyes as blue as the sky, face pale and carved by tears, dark blonde hair cascading down her shoulders, and a child's wail in the background, his - their - child. Aramis thrashed wildly, his battered limbs alight with sudden strength as he threw himself up, hand reaching for the blade strapped to his waist and closing around thin air, but- 

“Aramis!”

“Hey, ‘s okay, calm down!” 

“Hold him, damn it, he'll rip his stitches-” 

Hands were on him then, warm and strong and steady. One cupped the back of his head while two others clasped his arm, and faces swam in his field of vision where it had dissolved into blurry brushstrokes when he'd moved too suddenly from an horizontal to a vertical position. Those familiar voices were calling again, and despite the way his heart kicked against his chest, frightened for the one he loved, Aramis knew, then, that he was safe. That somehow, he needn't worry. Not when Athos and Porthos and d'Artagnan were there, by his side. 

He sagged abruptly in their hold, allowing his eyes to close just for a fleeting moment, for his head to stop spinning, before he opened them again. 

“I'm… sorry.” His voice was a hoarse whisper as it came tearing out of a parched throat, and he winced. “Where….? What?” 

“Easy,” the word came spoken in Porthos’ deep voice, the mere presence of which steadied Aramis like nothing else ever could. “You've been out a while.” 

A tin cup was pressed to his chapped lips, and Aramis couldn't help it- he drank fast and greedy, as if he'd never before tasted water in his life. The liquid was cool and soothing, with the aftertaste of something slightly bitter that was familiar but he could not currently name. Porthos drew the cup away far too soon, and while part of him knew it was for the best, that taking in too much too quickly would only succeed in making him sick, Aramis barely held back a pitiful whine. His throat felt a little better, but he was still so thirsty… 

“You can have more in a bit,” Porthos reassured him as if he'd guessed at his thoughts, which would come as no surprise, really- not when the two of them were as attuned to each other, to their needs and deepest feelings, more than anything else in this wretched world. 

Grateful, Aramis nodded, and tried once more to speak. 

“What… what happened?” 

This time, his voice was a little steadier, although still belied by a bone-deep exhaustion that pulled at his very being despite his earlier surge of energy. It was fading now, leaving him weary, aching, and feeling warm, too warm. He was fevered, he realised, the heaviness of it pulling him down and urging him to give in, to simply close his eyes again and fade back into unawareness.

But- no, not yet. Not before he sorted his jumbled thoughts and memories. 

“You don't remember?” The mattress next to him dipped as Athos sat by his side. Aramis scrunched his eyebrows, forcing himself to dredge up the murky memories. 

“Rochefort… we fought, at the palace.” There was blood, and pain, and- rage, so much burning fury within his heart… “We- won?” 

Athos nodded. “Indeed. The traitor is dead, yours and the Queen's names cleared.” 

Aramis blinked. “Who killed him?” 

“You did,” d'Artagnan piped up from where he leaned against the wall, near the door to what Aramis now recognised as his own room at the garrison. Home . He was home. “Well- technically we all did our part, but you did the most damage, and dealt the final blow.” 

“...Huh,” was all that Aramis found himself able to say. He was starting to remember now, the clang of swords meeting, the tang of blood, Rochefort's one remaining eye as the life bled out of him, the hatred in that glassy blue eye as he died. 

Somehow, the memory filled him with gut-wrenching disgust rather than pride or relief. 

The walls of the dungeon. The clink and drag of chains heavy around his wrists. The burning weight of a collar around his neck as he was brought to his knees like an animal, and Rochefort’s sneer as a pair of Red Guards tied his arms up over his head. The low, menacing hum coming out of the traitor's pursed lips while he regarded Aramis, chained and trapped like a snared wolf. 

‘Not so proud now, are we, dog?’ 

The flash of a boot, a kick to his exposed ribs. Jerking against the chains, shoulders burning and the spikes of the collar digging deeper into the soft flesh of his throat. 

But worse than the pain, was the humiliation. 

Aramis blinked, shuddering slightly. “I see… That's a relief.” 

He pretended not to notice the way the other three men exchanged quick, worried looks, the way D'Artagnan shifted against the wall to angle himself more towards the bed, or Porthos’ fingers tightening their grip around his bicep, or the subtle twitch of Athos’ hand, as if the swordsman was barely holding himself back from reaching out to touch him and make sure he was still in one piece. 

“Yes,” Athos said carefully instead, that restless hand settling for the moment on top of his own knee. “It is. But it's an even bigger one to see you awake, brother. You've been out of it for nearly two days.” 

“Two- days?” Aramis blinked again, and mustered enough strength to raise his head and look at each of his brothers in turn. “Surely not. I… how?” 

“Well I'm no expert, but I assume imprisonment, torture and a swordfight on top of everything else will do that to one,” d'Artagnan pointed out dryly, one eyebrow raised critically in that infuriating manner of his that confirmed that he probably had a point. Aramis cleared his throat, fumbling for something to say. 

“It… really wasn't that bad?” 

It hardly came as a surprise when Porthos glared at him with enough intensity to freeze the deepest fires of Hell . “Are you jokin'? Your back's flayed almost to the bone, you've a couple cracked ribs, your shoulders are barely held in place, your throat looks like a wolf had at it, an’ Rochefort almost sawed your arm off durin’ your duel!” 

“And you probably sprained a knee somewhere between all of that excitement,” Athos added, matter-of-factly. 

“And you obviously lost -what? Half of the blood that's supposed to be inside your body? Not to mention you were starved while in that dungeon-” 

“Alright, point made,” Aramis snapped with a little more heat than he'd wanted, cutting d'Artagnan off before the latter had a chance to complete his -apparently rather extensive- list of injuries. He opened his mouth again to say something, but he found there really was nothing else to be said. The others were right- he should probably just accept that this was not one of those cases where he could brush their concern away with a simple ‘it's nothing’ and stubbornly plough onward without a care. He was a medic, after all, and he knew all too well when a body had reached, or even crossed, its limits.

But he wanted it to be nothing. He oh-so-desperately wanted it to be something he could sleep off, he wished he could simply just wake up in the morning with the marks of what he'd endured gone, as if nothing had ever happened. 

Because if he listened to his brothers, if he stayed in bed and truly thought about what had happened, now that he had the time and presence of mind to do so, if he allowed it all to catch up to him… 

Then he'd break. Somehow, he knew that he'd shatter like glass- the cracks were already there, invisible to anyone but him, and if he allowed himself to stay and examine them for even a moment, he knew that he may never come back from it. 

‘You're nothing but the bastard son of a Spanish whore, playacting at being a soldier.’ Rochefort’s fingers gripped his chin, forcing his head up at an angle that made fire spread across his ravaged throat. ‘You see it now, don't you, Aramis? How worthless you truly are. How disgusting, how filthy- unfit for anything but for the worms to feast on once I'm done with you.’ 

The whip whistled once. Twice. The pain was everywhere, and he could not shut it out any longer. He had little strength to even remain conscious.

‘She will see you for what you truly are. They all will. And not even your God will care to save your sinner’s soul.”  

Aramis swallowed hard, trying to lock the memory away; Rochefort was dead and Aramis had killed him, he'd avenged Anne and Constance and Lemay and himself, and that was that. There was no point in thinking further about the man. 

God, how everything hurt. What wouldn't he give for a single moment's reprieve from the pain. For relief. 

Absolution. 

(Though he knew he deserved none.) 

Aramis cleared his throat, and hoped -prayed- he still possessed enough presence of mind to keep his expression neutral, to make sure it did not betray the turmoil that clutched at his heart and squeezed so tightly it all but cut his breath off. 

“Could I have some more water, please?” He tried flashing Porthos one of his usual, easygoing smiles- the ones that conveyed that everything was well, that he would be alright, that not a single thing was amiss.

The way in which Porthos’ dark, thoughtful eyes narrowed made him know his attempt at dismissing the matter had failed. 

“Yeah, course” the taller man said anyway, refusing to pursue the matter further for the moment, and reached for the cup. He brought it to Aramis’ lips, and patiently held it there even when Aramis tried to move his hand to insinuate that he could drink on his own. “There's some drops of somethin’ herbal or other in it for the fever an' the pain, the physician said. Will put you right back to sleep.” 

Right, sleep. Did he want to sleep? He wasn't sure- he didn't know whether the nightmares would come and to what extent, and somehow, the fear and uncertainty of not knowing made him more afraid than the dreams itself ever did. 

Still, he drank. There was no strength left within him to refuse, and anyway, he was parched. He could worry about the nightmares later.

Perhaps they wouldn't even be as terrible as the past few days of his life had been. Perhaps they could be the reprieve he so dearly craved. 

After he emptied the cup and Porthos placed it back on the nightstand, d’Artagnan cleared his throat and peeled himself off the wall, his narrow shoulders straightening. 

“I'm going to see how Constance is doing,” he said, turning towards the door but keeping an eye on Aramis all the while. “She's still shaken herself, and she has to go back to the Louvre at dawn. Want me to tell her anything, Aramis?”

There was loaded meaning behind those words, all of them knew- it was not an honest question but rather an invitation, an opportunity for Aramis to deliver a message to Anne through Constance. He could tell her he was alright, or that he loved her, or that she must not worry for him- and, delivered in code by Constance, it would arouse no suspicions of any kind. It was simple. It was safe.

Aramis shook his head. “No, d'Artagnan. Thank you.” 

D'Artagnan blinked, clearly taken aback, then glanced hesitantly between Porthos and Athos, as if he were asking them for an explanation to this unexpected refusal on Aramis’ part. But they didn't know- couldn’t know. Porthos grunted softly, and Athos shrugged one shoulder, and in the end, with one last bewildered look in Aramis’ direction, d'Artagnan bid them goodnight and left. 

The clicking of the door as it shut behind him, was too loud in the silence that bad fallen among the three remaining occupants of the room. 

Athos and Porthos did not ask Aramis why he refused. Aramis offered no explanation. 

“You must eat something if you are to regain your strength. Do you think you can take some broth?” Athos asked eventually, after a few moments of the worst, most pregnant silence Aramis could remember having endured in his life. 

The very mention of food made Aramis’ stomach tie itself into painful knots, bile rising to the back of his throat. He swallowed thickly, then shook his head carefully. 

“No… I don't think I can keep anything down right now.” The pain, the fever and the exhaustion would no doubt make sure of it, and he refused to trouble his brothers more by becoming sick. 

Athos’ expression pinched in thoughtful concern, but he didn't pressure Aramis- he just nodded, understanding in those clear gray eyes. “I see. Would you like to lie back down, then?” 

“Yes, please,” Aramis breathed, relieved not only because no explanation was required from him (for now), but also because whatever little strength he had was swiftly waning, his limbs trembling with exhaustion he didn't bother to hide. What use was it anyway, when Porthos held him, and could certainly feel the fine tremors running through his body, the heat of fever that emanated from his skin? He had no fire left in him to even attempt to lie. 

He was so tired of the lies, of hiding. 

(And yet what else could he do but run and hide?) 

It was Porthos who helped him recline back on his least injured right side so he once again faced the wall, wedged a spare pillow between his thighs so that his sprained left knee would be somewhat more comfortable, and arranged the blankets around him until he was snugly tucked in like a sick child. At any other time, Aramis might have laughed, might have teased Porthos by calling him a mother hen. 

This time, he said nothing. 

“You alright?” Porthos asked in a low whisper once he was satisfied with the fact that Aramis would sooner grow wings and fly, than untangle himself from the tight nest of pillows and blankets and get off the bed on his own. “Need anythin’ else?” 

Aramis opened his mouth. Closed it again. 

“...Stay?” He dared himself to whisper back after a few painfully awkward seconds, letting his eyes flutter shut if only so that he didn't have to look at his brothers after uttering the shameful, undeserving plea. 

(He did not deserve their love, their care. He never had.) 

“Of course we will,” Athos responded, and Porthos seconded him with a low, throaty hum. “Rest, Aramis. We're here.” 

There was such open tenderness in his voice, in the way his hand finally found its way to Aramis’ hair, brushing against his scalp in a feather-light caress and making him all but melt under the soft, soothing touch- gentleness and comfort after so much pain. 

Aramis could have wept, because how did they still love him after everything- after all that he was, the rotten sins that spread and corrupted everyone around him, hurt them, dragged down to Hell with him? After every disaster he'd brought down on their heads, how were they not disgusted with him? 

(How could he ever looked them in the eye again, when Rochefort had been right on all accounts?)

Porthos settled next to him, a warm, solid presence that promised a safety Aramis no longer recalled, and yet one he craved to feel again. His hand joined Athos’, strayed to Aramis’ bandaged neck, as if he sought his pulse even under the layers of clean white linen. 

“We've got you. Sleep.” The gentle command was accompanied by a cool, wet washcloth being carefully placed to the side of his face that soothed his fevered skin somewhat.

He wanted to scream. To cry. To yell at them that they should leave him to burn in Hell alone, to suffer eternal punishment as was his due.

But he was weak- oh so weak, craving their presence, their comfort, an anchor against the agonies of his body and soul. 

So Aramis obeyed, and slept. 

Chapter Text

Aramis was restless in his sleep, which came as no surprise to Porthos; he knew how prone the marksman had become to night terrors after Savoy and, surely, the ordeal he'd just endured would have brought nightmares to anybody regardless of predisposition. Hell, Porthos himself was going to have nightmares of it, of his brother broken and bleeding, of Rochefort condemning him to a slow, painful and humiliating death. Of the rest of the Inseparables having been too late to save him.

(Of the Queen of France and the country itself being condemned to violence and corruption, too, but admittedly that concern came to Porthos only after he’d ensured Aramis’ safety.)

No, the nightmares weren't what worried Porthos- what truly bothered him was the all-too apparent lack of light he’d noticed in Aramis’ eyes. Porthos might have ascribed it to fever and injury and simply brushed it off as something passing, except he had witnessed Aramis badly injured before, and no matter how intense the pain had been, there had been only one time when he had looked so utterly defeated.

Savoy. It had only been after Savoy. 

To see this lack of life in Aramis’ eyes now, was eerily reminiscent of the time after that fateful training exercise, and it scared Porthos almost as much as his foolish brother’s brush with execution had. 

If Athos’ stiff shoulders and furrowed brow were any indication, he, too, had made a similar observation. Porthos watched Athos for a moment as he retrieved the washcloth from the side of Aramis’ face, the moisture in it having grown lukewarm where it sat against the latter’s fevered cheek. Athos dipped it into the washbasin on top of the nightstand, wringing it out before replacing it on Aramis. Aramis made a soft noise -of protest or relief, Porthos couldn’t tell- but otherwise remained unconscious, only shifting once in a while, restless. 

“He's not well, is he?” Porthos murmured, absently fiddling with a clasp of his leather doublet. 

“No,” Athos solemnly agreed, well-aware that Porthos wasn’t referring simply to Aramis’ physical condition, “he is not”. 

Porthos watched as Athos’ fingers absently played with Aramis’ hair even now that the latter was asleep, no longer in such pressing need for comfort. No, Porthos suspected it was for Athos’ own peace of mind that he had not let his hands stray from the marksman  for longer than a few seconds at a time- the eldest of their little gang might not show it so openly, but he had been as scared for Aramis’ life as Porthos, d’Artagnan, Constance and Treville had been, if not more. 

He saw the guilt of it now, in the lines of Athos’ face, the dusky gray of his eyes; how he blamed himself for being too late, not having acted decisively enough as their leader, having let it get too far. Perhaps if he had been there for Aramis at the convent after he’d lost Isabelle, he wouldn’t have fallen right into the Queen’s arms. Perhaps, had he been a better lieutenant, a better brother, Aramis would not have suffered thusly. 

Porthos reached out and clamped a hand on Athos’ shoulder, wincing at the way the muscles underneath the linen shirt felt taut and stiff. 

“Hey,” he murmured, “we saved him. An’ the Queen. There wasn’t anythin’ else we could’ve done.”

“We could have sniffed out Rochefort and killed him before he got the chance to lay a finger on him,” Athos muttered between gritted teeth, the fury towards the slain traitor clearly still burning within him. Porthos didn’t blame him- he felt much the same himself, would likely not stop feeling so and seeking to tear Rochefort’s dead body apart piece by piece until he saw Aramis hale and healthy and back on his feet. 

Even so, he could not bear to see another one of his brothers torment himself over that bastard's villainy. 

“He fooled us all. Even the cap’n.” 

Treville was no longer their captain, of course, having finally decided to do the safest thing for all of them and just accept King Louis’ invitation and become his new First Minister, but old habits died hard. To them, he would always be their captain. Still, the point stood, even if Athos only responded with a noncommittal grunt and dropped the subject. 

The room sank into relative silence again, only interrupted by the crackling of the flames in the hearth, and Aramis’ uneasy breaths and occasional groans and mutterings in Spanish. Every time the injured man shifted under the covers, throwing his head this way and that, Athos would move as well, petting his hair or muttering softly-spoken words of comfort. Porthos, too, would reach out and lay a hand on Aramis’ arm, just below the sutured gash left from Rochefort’s blade. Their ministrations seemed to calm him, if only temporarily, before whatever tormented him behind closed eyelids caught up to him again, and the circle began anew. 

Both Porthos and Athos were exhausted, having slept in shifts and only for a couple of hours at a time during the past two days, but they would not leave Aramis- not yet. Constance and d’Artagnan had offered to switch with them a few times, but it was still too early for the two senior musketeers to let Aramis out of their sights. Not when it was obvious how much he needed them, although even now he seemed unable to outright admit it. 

So they stayed through the night once again, watching over their wounded brother, each privately praying that he would be able to come back from this, just as he had come back from so many ordeals in the past. 

That they hadn’t, after all, been too late in bringing him home.

Morning found Porthos dozing off while sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. He had earnestly tried to stay awake through the night, but the past week's physical and emotional exertions had finally caught up, and he must have fallen asleep without even realising, for he didn't even remember leaning against the wall. 

He woke, now, to Athos’ hand firm but gentle on his shoulder. Porthos blinked against the dull, early morning light and looked up into gray eyes framed  by dark smudges that betrayed his own fatigue. 

“Everythin’ alright?” Porthos murmured, voice hoarse from sleep. He sat up straighter and his eyes immediately flickered to Aramis’ still-sleeping form, to settle that irrational fear within him that warned that his brother might be taken from him again without warning. 

“He's a little calmer than last night. I think he's getting some proper rest,” Athos assured him, following the direction of his eyes. “But I have been summoned to the palace by Treville, so I need you to watch him until I'm back.” 

Porthos frowned. “What does the cap- I mean, the Minister want? Did somethin’ happen? An’ anyway, you look like you're about to fall flat on your face, so you better get some rest when you come back. I can take care of ‘Mis.” 

“I know you can.” Athos’ lips twitched into a small smile. “I don't know what I'm needed for, but I assume if it were anything urgent, the Minister would have already told us. His missive only stated that I should see him at my own convenience, so I don't imagine the country's about to go to war or anything of the sort.”

Porthos snorted. “True, that. But Athos, I mean it- you look like shit. Should rest when you come back.” 

Athos’ expression spoke of blatantly faked offense. “I could say the same about you.” 

“Eh, I got a little sleep down ‘ere.” Porthos grinned, patting the grainy wooden floor beneath him. “I'm from the Court of Miracles, remember? Not some pampered lordling that needs a plush bed to rest proper.” 

He could see Athos was barely holding himself back from rolling his eyes. “Well, you do have a bed now. Might as well use it.” 

 Porthos sighed, shaking his head. 

“Nah. Not while that one,” he gestured vaguely in Aramis’ direction, “needs me.” 

“Neither of us will be any help to him if we collapse,” Athos pointed out, then stretched out a hand for Porthos to clasp and pull himself to his feet. They both teetered a little, Athos stumbling slightly backwards and Porthos shuffling to gain his feet, fatigue evident in every sluggish movement. 

Porthos sighed. “Okay, fine. We'll take turns, alright? You catch some sleep for a few hours after you're back from the palace, an’ then we switch. How's that sound?”

“Deal,” Athos agreed with a nod, then busied himself with doing the buttons of his leather doublet up while Porthos fussed about Aramis; gently touching the man’s cheek to measure the progress of his fever, replacing the compress on the side of his neck, pulling the blanket a little more snug around him from where the sleeping marksman had pushed it away during the night. 

After that was done, Porthos plopped down on the chair Athos had vacated earlier with a small groan, his eyes never leaving Aramis’ pale face. Even in sleep, there was a slight furrow in his brow, a tightness about his mouth that made Porthos worry. 

“Y’know, what I said last night. About him not being well… You don’ think it’s gonna be like Savoy, do you?” He heard the tension in his own tone, the gruffness in his voice, and knew that his fears would be plain as day to Athos. “I mean… he didn't want to send a message to the Queen with the Pup last night-” 

“Good. He shouldn't.” Athos voice was stern enough in the brisk manner with which he cut Porthos off, that the latter turned to him in mild shock. And yet, Athos went on. 

“Aramis wouldn't have been targeted by Rochefort, had he been able to control himself and his... affections.” The eldest musketeer winced a little. “He put not only himself in danger, but the Queen and the future king of France, and if he's finally learned that he cannot have them-” 

“You're not seriously blaming ‘Mis for this!” Porthos hissed between gritted teeth, only remembering to keep his voice hushed at the last moment and still casting a quick glance at Aramis to make sure he had not been disturbed. Thankfully the injured man seemed to be deep into the realm of sleep, so Porthos went on, as quietly as he could. “Rochefort was the traitor! Rochefort tortured him nearly to death, Athos! He would’ve found a way to pin everythin’ on Aramis with or without the whole business with the Queen. It all started ‘cause of that damn cross she gave him when he saved her, long before the convent. Rochefort saw it an’ lost it, simple as that. Would've happened either way.” 

“Yes, but he wouldn't have had a leg to stand on had Aramis known not to make such a terrible mess!” Now Athos was getting just as worked up, which was disturbing in and of itself- Porthos knew him to usually be the last of them to lose his grip on civility (unless he were drunk). “If the Queen didn't have a son -and she wouldn't, considering the King had failed to grant her one for the past few years- Rochefort wouldn't have had literal physical proof of Aramis’ guilt, he wouldn't have been able to imprison and torture him-”

Athos cut himself off abruptly, pressing a gloved hand to his haggard face. Porthos watched, alert, as he sucked in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. 

“Look,” the eldest of the Inseparables said again, and this time he sounded exhausted rather than agitated, “this isn't the first time a cuckolded husband has tried to kill Aramis-” 

“Well it sure is the first one that came so damn close-”

“-and he's here now, safe, and he has us. Let us wait and see how he fares when he's healed a little, alright? And, Porthos…” 

Athos’ eyes looked suddenly so impossibly soft, as they looked at him. As if their previous quarrel had never occurred. 

“Please. Do not think of Savoy. This isn't Savoy. Aramis will be alright.” 

“...Yeah.” Porthos assented, hanging his head in defeat. “Yeah, guess he will be. Always is.” 

“Precisely. Have a little faith in him, hm?” When Porthos looked up again, a small, tender smile had graced Athos’ face. The sight filled Porthos with a feeling of warmth and safety- made him think that perhaps Athos was right. This was just another hiccup they'd all get through, together. He didn't have to worry, he just had to trust Athos and Aramis. They were all alive, after all, and they had each other, which meant that anything else was eventually going to get sorted out. 

(He wanted to believe it. He so desperately wanted to believe it, but he could not shake the image of Aramis’ lightless eyes, the way he'd looked at them the previous night, as if he hadn't been able to face them without crumpling in on himself.)

Still, he had to try. He had to believe Athos.

“...Yeah.” Porthos cleared his throat, then nodded and tried to smile, too. “A’ight. Guess ‘Mis is right, callin’ me a fussy mother hen an’ all. Now go, Athos. It's not proper to keep the First Minister of France waiting, eh?” 

When Athos’ rolling his eyes came as expected, Porthos snorted.

“Yes, of course. How could I forget? Now if he'd just order us all into a mandatory week off…”

“Or a month.”

“Or a month,” Athos agreed wearily. He grabbed his hat -the last piece missing from his ensemble- and made for the door. “I'll come by later, when it's my turn to sit with Aramis. Try to survive until then.” 

“You too. Don't fall asleep on your horse,” Porthos teased, and laughed softly to himself when Athos responded with a particularly vulgar gesture before quietly opening the door and slipping out of the room. Porthos waited until the door had been shut with an equally quiet click and Athos’ footsteps had receded down the hall, before turning his attention back to his sleeping brother. He checked the compress again, although it clearly needed no changing yet, because he desperately wanted to have something to do with his hands. 

“...see? You really are a mother hen.” 

Aramis’ voice, thick and slurred with sleep, came so unexpectedly that Porthos almost jumped off the chair, falling backwards against it and causing it to screech hideously against the floor.

“Jesus!” Porthos gasped, pressing one palm to his forehead as he tried to calm his racing heartbeat. 

“Mm… don't take the Lord’s name in vain,” Aramis scolded half-heartedly, his eyes still closed. 

“What- how- how long 'ave you been awake?! And also: do you want to kill me?!” Porthos blurted out, breathless. He dragged the chair back to its original position and leaned close, trying to discern from Aramis’ expression how much the latter had heard of his and Athos’ conversation.

“It's not among my particular interests, no.” Aramis finally blinked his eyes open and craned his head a little, trying to look at Porthos, although he mostly succeeded in making himself uncomfortable by jostling some injury or other, considering the wince and groan that accompanied the movement. “To answer your earlier question, though: long enough.” 

Well, shit. “Hey, listen, I'm sure Athos didn’ mean-”

“No, Athos meant it all, and he was right,” Aramis cut him off. This time he tried to push himself up on one arm, and Porthos quickly intervened to help him sit up, before he could hurt himself further. 

“Well, I mean, ‘s true you've a bit of a challenge keeping your desires at bay and something else inside your breeches,” Porthos tried for levity as he helped Aramis lean slightly against the wall, although he would have far preferred the latter stayed lying down- he looked as if a strong breeze might knock him over, and his face was lined with discomfort. “How many angry husbands till you learnt that lesson, eh?” 

Aramis’ dark eyes met his, and Porthos’ already forced grin melted off of his face when he saw the bone-deep sadness there. 

“Athos was right,” the marksman repeated softly, and there was something in his voice that Porthos couldn't properly name, but that caused his heart to twist all the same. “This was all because of me. I endangered so many people… all the people that I loved. What Rochefort did was righteous punishment, and I deserved more. I still do.” 

“Seriously? You're going to beat yourself up even further?” Porthos lifted his eyes to the ceiling, exasperated. “Hate to break it to you, ‘Mis, but Rochefort didn’ do any of it because he was righteous and a message from God or whatever. He did it because he was furious the Queen loved someone else an’ not him. You had nothin’ to do with it, an’ yes, you're a bloody moron, but if you think for a second that you deserved it-”

“I did, though!” Aramis shouted, then startled a little, as if disturbed by the sound of his own voice. The anger in it. Porthos opened his mouth to counter, but Aramis went on before he could. “I deserved it for all I put you through. The pain, the danger- when you got shot and taken, that day, with General Alaman, it was because of me. Because I saw a child and I thought of the Dauphin, and I missed my shot, and you- you could have died. Over and over and over, you all could have died because of me. Lemay and Marguerite did die! And Constance- God, I almost got her killed, too!” 

Aramis stopped, his body shuddering suddenly with a dry, heaving sob that rent Porthos’ insides in two worse than any blade or bullet could have done. 

“So yes,” Aramis continued, his head hanging now, resting against the plaster wall with his hair obscuring most of his face, “I did deserve it all. Rochefort was a horrible man, a traitor, and he deserved everything that he got in the end- but so did I. Don't try to tell me otherwise.” 

Porthos held his breath, waiting- but Aramis quieted, spent, breathing shallowly as he rested his body against the wall. And Porthos did what he knew to be for the best, in times such as these; he got up from the chair and moved himself to the bed, right next to Aramis, careful enough that he would not accidentally hurt him, but close enough for their sides to gently press up against each other. Aramis’ body still felt warm where it touched his own, but Porthos decided they could worry about the persistent fever later. 

For the moment, he gently slipped his arm around Aramis’ torso, low enough that it wouldn't press against the worst of the gashes on his back. Carefully, he pulled the other musketeer against him, and he relished the contact and the warmth, the security, as much as he knew Aramis himself did. 

“I will, though,” Porthos murmured softly. “I will try to tell you otherwise. Over an’ over an’ over, as you said. Until you drill it into that empty head of yours that you're my brother. An’ a good man. You are a good man, Aramis. You deserved none of it.” 

He felt Aramis’ battered body shiver slightly against his, and the marksman turned his head to nuzzle Porthos’ shoulder. “You don't understand… He knew everything. He knew about my mother. About Isabelle… ” 

Not nearly for the first time, Porthos wished there was a way to bring the dead back to life just so he could kill Rochefort again, this time all by himself and with his bare hands. Still, revenge on a dead traitor didn't matter as much as comforting his brother did, and so he simply tucked Aramis’ head beneath his chin before speaking. “Well, I guess he found out through the Cardinal. ‘Course the old rooster would’ve kept tabs on all of us. But why does it matter? You've never been ashamed ‘bout your ma, an’ with Isabelle… well… we all carry such demons with us, you've said so yourself. Why should yours warrant your punishment more than ours do?” 

“That's not…” Aramis sighed weakly, as if the mere act of speaking exhausted him- and maybe it did. “It's just… what would you do when faced with the worst parts of you, Porthos? How would you feel?” 

Porthos mulled the question over for a few seconds. He thought about the knife fights in the Court, about the thieving, the backstabbing and the dishonour. He thought about his own father. About the way he had almost lost faith in Treville because of some honeyed words and the promise of a home, when he already had one, along with a family. 

“I think,” he eventually started, slowly, “that there's darkness inside all of us. We all have that little piece of ourselves that we hate an’ that we wish we could cut out. But it's somethin’ we gotta learn to live with. An’ to realise it doesn’ define us. We've all hurt people, ‘Mis. But what makes us different from Rochefort and the Cardinal, an’ all those powerful rich wankers out there, is that we feel bad about it, y’know? We don't find excuses for it. We try to be better.” 

“What…” he heard Aramis swallow, trying to find his voice. “What if I don't want to hurt more people, Porthos? What if I can't be a soldier anymore?” 

“Huh?” Porthos blinked, taken aback. “What brought this on?” 

“Before Milady came… to rescue me,” Aramis started, his voice shaking just a little, “I made a vow to God. That if… if He granted mercy to An- the Queen and the Dauphin, and somehow, by a miracle, I lived to see another day… then I'd renounce this life and all earthly aspects of it. I would give up soldiering and devote my life to Him. And then- just when I spoke the words, Milady appeared, as if it was meant to be this way. As if… that was what I had to do to atone.” 

As Aramis spoke the words, Porthos thought distantly to all the brushes he'd had with death over the years; from when he was a little boy, running from a baker armed with a pistol, with a pilfered loaf of bread clutched in his bony arms, to the incident with Bonaire when he almost lost an arm (and his life), to the most recent misadventure in order to bring Vargas to Paris and save Aramis. 

None of these, he thought dimly, could compare to the cold, yawning pit that opened within his gut as the meaning of Aramis’ words slowly sunk in. The icy hand clutching his lungs and stealing all air from inside them, all but making him choke on nothing. 

“You can't leave,” he mustered, his voice shaking, and it was pathetic, but he didn't care. “A-Aramis… you can't leave. You- You won't, right? You don’ have to.”

He looked down to the other man's face, fast enough to just barely catch the way Aramis’ expression shuttered, and yet he couldn't - wouldn't let him do this. Anything but this. 

“I made a vow, Porthos,” Aramis tried again, sounding so weak and lifeless that Porthos was seized by the urge to check for a pulse, even though he knew, rationally, that such fears were absurd. 

“What about your vow to us?” Porthos blurted out, desperate. “All for one an’ one for all, yeah? That vow came first! We promised- we swore we'd always stick together. We're family!”

“I know!” Aramis looked to him, and those depthless brown eyes were brimming with tears. “I-I know, Porthos, but what- what if that's the only way I can live with myself?”

“No.” Porthos shook his head, squeezing Aramis’ unhurt arm. “No, I refuse to accept that you'll find peace an’ forgiveness in isolation, ‘Mis. I know you. You hate to be alone so- so I won’ let you do this to yourself! Jus’ cause you think sufferin’ on your own will somehow fix things! It won't!” 

Porthos felt Aramis shaking against him, sobbing breathlessly with his face pressed onto the larger man's shoulder, and against all caution for the other musketeer's wounds, he pulled Aramis close and held him tight against his own chest. Cuts and bruises could be treated, skin sewn back together- but what he cared most to protect was his brother's heart. 

“Don' leave,” Porthos begged softly, aware that his own eyes had misted over, and a lone tear was sliding down his cheek. “Please don’ leave me, ‘Mis.” 

He did not truly believe in any higher power, not anymore- but he knew the God Aramis believed in was kind and benevolent, and championed love above all else, so how could a being as merciful as that, wish for them to remain apart, when their souls had been cut from the same cloth and meant to exist side by side until death claimed them both? 

“I don't know what to do anymore,” Aramis’ voice was muffled from where his face was pressed to Porthos’ shoulder, his fingers holding tightly onto the latter's linen shirt. 

“Then I'll guide you! Me an’ Athos an’ d'Artagnan an’ Constance… you don’ have to do this on your own! Jus’ please… trust us, Aramis. All we've ever asked for you was to trust us.” 

And that was it, in the end, wasn't it? The fact that Aramis had always kept himself apart, even when he'd laughed with them, bled with them, lay tangled up between them when they all huddled next to the fire for warmth and comfort. He had always given it his all for them, sewn up their wounds, watched them when they were sick and fought for them without a question. And yet, somehow, he had never expected them to do the same for him. Even when they'd had, he had waved it off, grateful and yet pretending not to need help, not to be in pain, not to feel as lost as they all did. 

He had loved them, selflessly and fully because that was his way, to love with his entire heart and soul, to give himself over wholly. 

But he hadn't trusted them, not with the deepest, most vulnerable part of him. And part of Porthos felt angry and betrayed, because Aramis had been the one to have persuaded him to open up, to trust and to rely on them, but had not applied the same rules to himself. 

Mostly, though, he felt sad. Grieving, more accurately, because how could Aramis not see himself as they saw him? As wonderful and brilliant and so full of light, so worthy of love. 

“Trust us,” Porthos repeated again, hushed and desperate and hoping beyond hope that this would be the thing to make the difference, to finally allow Aramis to see the truth: that they loved him just as much as he loved them, that they wouldn't leave him, that even Athos with his sharp words and barbed criticism held him in the highest regard and wanted more than anything to see him safe. 

“I'll try,” Aramis replied after a few moments, so quiet Porthos barely heard him. “I… I just… I really need to think about this, Porthos. It's… everything is a bit overwhelming, right now.” 

He sounded so tired and resigned, almost more than Porthos had ever heard him- yet not as broken as he'd sounded after Savoy, and that was the one thing that gave Porthos a smidge of hope, enough for him to decide there was no use in tormenting him by pressuring him further at the moment. So he simply nodded, and sniffed. 

“A'ight,” he said hoarsely. “A'ight, you've as long as you need to think. You'll need to rest for a while yet, after all.” 

Aramis groaned. “Right… I'm afraid I haven't forgotten. Kind of hard to forget, really, when it feels as if I've been dragged through the bowels of hell.” 

“Take it that means you're hurtin’, then.” It was more of a statement than a question, and Porthos was not surprised to feel Aramis nod against him. 

“The herbs you gave me last night are helping, but I could really use something stronger right now,” the marksman admitted, voice strained. The admittance alone was enough to convince Porthos of how bad the pain must have been, considering Aramis had many a time managed to hide injuries that would have other men on their knees and screaming- which of course only fueled his worry for his brother. 

“Maybe we should call the physician again,” he mused as he carefully disengaged from Aramis and helped the latter lie down again, but the wounded man just shook his head. 

“No, I don't think there's anything particularly wrong,” he started, then winced. “Well, no more than one would expect, at least. Pain and discomfort are commonplace with these kinds of injuries, and the fever feels better than it did last night.” 

“Perks of the resident medic being injured, I guess,” Porthos grumbled, rummaging through the various vials strewn across the nightstand, "he can diagnose himself. Here.” 

He upended a particular vial he recalled the physician labeling as a laudanum solution inside the tin cup they'd used the previous night, and added some fresh water from a pitcher, then sat down on the bed again to help Aramis drink it. “Can't say I understand medic speak, but if I recall correctly it's only diluted laudanum, so it won’ put you to sleep like the one for the fever did. Jus’ make you drowsy. An’ help with the pain, obviously.” 

“Good, I don't particularly feel like sleeping again,” Aramis said, then let Porthos tip the cup to his lips and drank dutifully, although by his expression, the older man surmised it must not have an especially pleasant taste. 

They sat in silence after, Aramis breathing deeply through the pain until the draught must have started to take effect, which Porthos deduced from the way his taut muscles seemed to relax, his body sinking into the mattress. Aramis didn't seem inclined to talk, but Porthos, worried and filled with a nervousness that was exacerbated by his lack of sleep, chattered about this and that and, to his great delight, even managed to draw a half-chuckle out of his patient once or twice. 

He hadn't bothered to keep the time, and was in the middle of delivering a particularly colorful speech about the Red Guard regimen, when the door to Aramis’ room swung open to reveal Athos. Porthos was still grinning when he turned to look at him, immersed as he'd been in his act, but one look at the swordsman's grim, somewhat shaken expression, made him drop it. 

“Athos? What is it?” He asked, fearing the answer. 

He watched with bated breath as Athos walked in and shut the door behind him, and he heard Aramis shuffle and pull himself up one one elbow, as anxious as Porthos himself was. 

“Gentlemen, the musketeers have officially been assigned a new captain,” Athos said, to which Porthos let his shoulders drop with a loud, relieved exhale- good, so nobody was dying or trying to kill them. 

“Tha's what the long face is for? C'mon we'll have fun drivin’ whoever it is crazy all over again, right, Aramis?” 

Aramis dropped back on the bed with a huff, nodding. “Yes, of course. That's what we're known for. So, who is it?” 

With a sigh heavy enough it could have moved mountains, Athos raised his eyes to the ceiling as he replied quietly, almost in disbelief. 

“Me.” 

Chapter Text

‘You are ready, Athos. I trust you to lead them as much as I'd trust myself.’ 

Athos had mulled Treville's words, his steady hand and wise, trusting gaze, over and over on the way back to the garrison, enough that he had almost made himself believe in them.

Now, meeting his brothers’ eyes, he was no longer so certain. 

Aramis was, of course, the first to recover; even when injured, he never was prone to silence for long, and certainly not at a loss of words. 

“Athos, that is wonderful.” His face, although pale and drawn with pain, lit up with a weak yet genuine smile. “It is as it should be, my friend. You more than deserve it.” 

“Yeah,” Porthos joined in, emboldened by Aramis’ short speech. “Shouldn't be anyone but you.” 

Shouldn't it, though? He was the one that had let all of this happen, after all. He hadn't realised Rochefort had been a spy and a traitor until it had been too late, he'd been outwitted by the man and let the musketeers’ good name be dragged through the mud in front of the King, and he would have even lost Aramis, had it not been for his criminal ex-wife’s timely intervention. How could he lead all of those men, when he had let one of the one closest to them be so brutally tortured and humiliated? Almost killed? 

But- no, this was not a conversation to be held at the moment. Not with Aramis still suffering the effects of his all too recent brush with death and Rochefort’s villainy, not with Porthos and himself exhausted and worrying out of their skin. He had failed to protect them before- he could not fail them again now. This was a cross he'd have to carry himself. As their captain, as a brother.

He blinked the bleak thoughts away, only to realise that, lost as he'd been for a moment, Aramis and Porthos had already engaged each other in hearty conversation about what was to be done. 

“Surely there's some sort of ceremony for these things,” Aramis was saying, looking more alert than Athos had seen him ever since they'd gotten him back from the Louvre.

“What, with officials an’ such? This will take days to organise, though- I don’ think we have that kind of time, an’ if the King starts thinking we're not good enough again-” 

“Never mind the technicalities,” Athos interrupted, holding up a hand. It was time to get things in order. “I will make the announcement as soon as possible, but first, I want Lupin to come take a look at your wounds, change the bandages, tell us if you're healing well. It's been three days since he first treated you, and if you manage to get an infection on top of everything I will hang you myself.”

Aramis’ face tightened as his previous levity left him. Clearly, he was not on board with the prospect of having a stranger poke and prod at him. “There's no need for that, Athos, I'm already feeling better and the fever-” 

“It was an order, not a suggestion,” Athos interrupted again, then decided to test the waters of Aramis’ mood, adding, “I am, after all, officially your captain.” 

His heart sank just a little when Aramis didn't rise to the playfully offered provocation, instead slumping a little and looking down at his hands. Athos noticed he'd been fidgeting with a thread coming off the blanket- a sign as sure as any that he was still deeply troubled.

“Very well,” Aramis conceded, all too easily for Athos’ -and Porthos’- comfort. “Might as well get this over with so you can both get some rest and focus on your duties. I've troubled you long enough as is.”

“We're not leavin’ you!” Porthos protested, and Athos nodded his agreement. 

“We'll be taking turns, and will also have to factor in this new… development, but Porthos is right- we've got you, Aramis.” 

The marksman’s shoulders hunched just slightly, although the movement must have greatly pained him, and he tucked his chin closer to his chest as if to hide his face. 

“You don't have to. I am feeling better, can look after myself.” His voice was closed-off, which Athos knew to be a bad sign- he was withdrawing from them again, putting on a brave face to dissuade them from lingering around him. Aramis’ goal when he acted in such a manner was usually to put their worries to rest, but surely he knew them well enough by now to know such behaviour would only make them fret further. “I'm the one who's cared for your wounds God knows how many times, if you recall. Obviously I can do the same for mine.” 

“This again,” Porthos muttered crossly, all but launching himself off Aramis’ bed and starting to pace up and down the room in what Athos recognised as a monumental effort to not strangle the injured man with his bare hands, a sentiment that Athos himself thoroughly shared at the moment, but tried to suppress for the sake of diplomacy. 

Athos leaned against the wall to gaze down at Aramis’ hunched form, his pale face still drawn with pain he was trying so bravely to conceal. Athos himself felt exhausted, and the prospect of having to command an entire troop of men instead of falling asleep for the next forty hours felt most daunting; but he  recalled the vacant look in his brother’s eyes the previous night, the way he had so hesitantly asked for comfort. It was Aramis’ way of trying to protect himself from further hurt, although how his brothers’ caring for him would hurt him, Athos had not an inkling.

Perhaps, then, he could coax Aramis into telling him. 

“Do you not want us here?” He asked plainly, deciding that a more sideways approach could bear more fruit than a direct confrontation. 

Indeed, Aramis shook his head. 

“I do,” he admitted softly, finally looking up at Athos, whose heart clenched at seeing such dullness in those normally lively brown depths. Maybe it's just the laudanum solution , he told himself, but the deepest part of him knew it was but wishful thinking. “But you both have other matters to attend to, and you have already worn yourselves ragged for my sake. Especially you, Athos. You have a whole regiment to run now, and I cannot possibly let you disregard your duty for my sake when I…” 

He trailed off, abruptly, eyes sliding to his fidgeting hands again. Athos raised an eyebrow. 

“When you, what?” He hoped this was going to get them somewhere. It was the closest he'd gotten Aramis to talk about what was going on inside that infuriatingly thick head of his, and he wasn't about to let it go. “Talk to us, Aramis. What is it?” 

“He thinks this mess is all his fault an’ that he deserved what Rochefort did to him, is what,” Porthoso snapped, before Aramis had a chance to respond, and Athos felt a rather unbearable urge to punch Porthos in the face for interrupting. Might have actually done so, had the way Aramis tensed and glanced at the other man not confirmed Porthos’ declaration for him, clueing Athos into part of the problem. 

“I shouldn't have to tell you this, Aramis, but this isn't your fault. Well, not only yours, at least. Rochefort-”

“Was a madman, would have found a way to cause such a catastrophic uproar anyway, was just taking his own depravity out on me, is that what you're going to say?” Aramis snorted humourlessly. “Don't bother, I've heard it all from Porthos already. Doesn't change the truth.” 

Porthos whirled on Aramis, then, jabbing an accusatory finger in his direction. “Hey, I thought we'd agreed-” 

“Not on that ,” Aramis snapped, holding Porthos’ gaze. Something passed between the two men just then, an unspoken conversation that Athos felt rather obviously left out of. Normally he did not begrudge Porthos and Aramis their secrets, for the bond they shared was something so deep it could not be put into words, and Athos, although he loved them both and knew he was loved back just as fiercely, did not wish to intrude upon it. Now, however, he could feel the heavy charge in the air between his brothers, the foreboding sentiment that he was missing something vital. And that, he could not allow. Not under the present circumstances. 

“Porthos,” he started slowly, deciding that the man in question was more likely to give him a solid answer than Aramis, “is there something I should be aware of?” 

“You askin’ as our captain?” Porthos asked back, eyes still trained on Aramis. Athos frowned.

“I am asking as your brother.” 

“ Porthos ,” Aramis hissed a warning, his expression uncharacteristically harsh. Athos, who had expected an equally hostile rebuttal from Porthos, was taken aback when he saw the latter suddenly deflate, his expression softening into something akin to regret. 

“Sorry. I'm sorry, ‘Mis.” he muttered, then passed a hand over his face before turning to Athos. “There's nothin’ going on, Athos. Honest. It's just… it's been a rough couple days is all.” 

“I am sorry, too.” Aramis looked up at Porthos imploringly, sounding deeply regretful. He was still tense as a bowstring about to snap, but the anger seemed to have left him, too. “I must sound so ungrateful to you both, behaving like a stubborn mule after… well, after everything.” 

Athos nodded, something in him easing up a touch, although he had not been convinced there was not yet another potentially destructive secret his two brothers were trying to hide from him. But, he decided, everything at its own time- he'd deal with the secret, if it existed, when things came to it. 

“I don't think you're ungrateful, but you are the most stubborn man I know, and considering Porthos is in this room with us, that says a lot,” Athos said dryly, relief coursing sudden and soothing through him when Porthos snorted out a quiet chuckle, even more so when something miniscule in Aramis’ expression loosened just a touch. “Whether you deserved this or not, Aramis, is not up to me or anyone else to decide. You will have to think about it yourself, and reach a conclusion within your heart. But what is up to me, and Porthos, and Constance and d'Artagnan, is taking care of you. And seeing as you're about as fit right now as a rheumy old man struck down with smallpox, I do not believe you have much of a choice on the matter, mon frère .” 

A sound escaped Aramis that might have been a sob, or a laugh, or both; Athos couldn't see his face, as he had lowered his head again, but he hoped they were making progress. 

“And you say I'm the stubborn one,” Aramis murmured, shaking his head, and Athos allowed himself a smile. 

“Perhaps it's a shared affliction. Now, I'll stay here with you, and Porthos will call in Lupin. How does that sound?” 

Aramis seemed to think about it for a moment. “At the risk of having you both go at me, again, I don't think that's a good idea- hear me out!” 

Athos closed his mouth obligingly, and motioned for Aramis to continue, which the latter did with a small, grateful nod. 

“I'll see Lupin. And- I won't turn you away. Of course not. But you both look… well, no offense, but you look like absolute shit.” 

“Why thank you,” muttered Porthos, but Athos nodded.

“True enough,” he conceded calmly. “What do you propose, then?” 

“You make the announcement as the new captain, then set d'Artagnan as today's overseer so you can get some rest, because I do not believe you'll make a good commander of the musketeers when it looks as if you have forgotten what a proper night's sleep even looks like.” Aramis turned to Porthos. “You rest, too. Please- I… I'd be grateful if you did.” 

“Who's goin’ to stay with you, then?” Porthos grumbled, then glanced away, clearly unable to resist Aramis’ pleading, concerned looks. Athos, however, nodded. 

“Porthos can share the bed with you, if you feel like your injuries will allow it. Or we could bring in a spare mattress?” 

Aramis flushed, the sudden colouring of his cheeks starkly obvious against his otherwise pallid face. He glanced between Athos and Porthos. 

“I… would not mind sharing.” 

Athos smiled knowingly, even as Porthos appeared concerned; of course Aramis would crave the closeness, the contact, so fond of the comfort of physical touch he was. Especially after his ordeal. Perhaps it would bring him a sense of safety neither Athos’ nor Porthos’ words had managed to. 

“You sure I won't hurt you?” Porthos asked, finally stopping that infernal pacing of his. Aramis simply nodded. 

“It wouldn't be the first time any of us have lain together with one among us injured,” he assured Porthos, whose face broke into a reluctant smirk. 

“Don’ let anyone hear you say that or they may get the wrong idea,” he muttered, and even Athos laughed at that. 

“Very well, then. It's settled. Oh- one last thing.” He looked to Aramis again, crossing his arms in front of his chest to appear as imposing and commanding as he could. “You will eat something. I order you, as your captain.”

Aramis winced. “Low blow, Athos.” 

“Well, I'll use everything in my arsenal if it gets you to get something inside of you that isn't drugged water. Will broth be easy enough on your stomach, you think? I'll ask Serge to make it quite light.” 

Finally, Aramis seemed to surrender, and Athos could have broken out into a dance when the injured musketeer nodded.

“Fine. I’ll try.” 

“Excellent.” Athos bent down and, unable to resist the tender, protective urge that surged up inside him once again, reached out and gently ruffled Aramis’ already tangled hair. The latter made a half-hearted disgruntled noise but did not even try to pretend he disliked the affections, which just made Athos smile again; truly, nobody on God's Creation could make him smile so often and genuinely as Porthos and Aramis did. 

“It's all settled, then. Porthos, if you'd please go and get Lupin?” 

“Ow,” Aramis remarked bluntly- and rather needlessly, Athos thought, for Lupin was not known to feel any pity for his patients no matter how they complained, cursed or wailed, and this time would be no exception.

“Hmm,” was the aged physicians's only answer, as he used a pair of forceps to tug experimentally at a set of stitches that held shut one of the gashes on Aramis’ right shoulder. The patient grunted again, and Lupin nodded, as if the sound alone were confirmation of what he was looking for. 

“Some of these are starting to close already. They were quite shallow.”

“Didn't feel so,” Aramis muttered through gritted teeth, only for him to once again go ignored when Lupin straightened his old, narrow shoulders and looked up at Athos. 

“I'll remove some of the stitches in a day or so,” he professed, pushing his spectacles up on his nose. “I'm afraid the rest will take a while, though, as will the swelling in your shoulders. You're very lucky they're still held in place, you know.”

“I've heard that before,” Athos muttered again, clearly not in a great mood, and Athos let out a long-suffering sigh. What was that saying, about medics making the worst patients?

“Thank you, Lupin. What about the cut on his arm? It worries me.” He asked, if only so Lupin would not start lecturing Aramis on his grouching. It would not bode well for anyone involved. 

“Oh, it'll heal well- it's quite deep, but I don't think it damaged the muscle too much. His ribs and knee are on the mend, too, but I'd advise against straining that leg for a week or so.” The old doctor scrunched up his nose, which made his wrinkles sharpen considerably. “Then again, I'd also advise against getting out of bed for that time in general. You need rest, lad. And good food.” 

“We're on that already,” Porthos reassured the old man with a gentle clap on the shoulder. Indeed, Athos had hollered out to Serge from the second floor gallery that he'd appreciate some broth, and the old cook had immediately set himself to the task. Aramis was, after all, his favourite.

Lupin let out a satisfied hum. “Good. Keep giving him the tea with the solution I left you if he's in pain, but I think he's past the risk of infection. So long as he rests, he'll be back to full health in a few weeks’ time.” 

“ He is right here, you know,” Aramis grumbled, and Lupin finally dignified him with a rheumy glare. 

“Well, I can't very well trust you of all people to look after yourself, can I? For a medic, you're remarkably bad at reading your own body's needs for rest.” 

There it is. Athos snorted, amused, then regretted it when Aramis’ eyes snapped at him. Quickly, he put his hands up in a motion of surrender. “My apologies, brother. But Lupin is right. And you're going to listen to him.”

“It's not like I could go anywhere, even if I were to disregard his advice,” Aramis replied, shifting slightly on the bed while Porthos set himself to the task of wrapping a new set of dressings around his torso so that his back would be covered and the wounds kept clean. He was clearly in pain, the drowsiness of the diluted laudanum already gone. 

“Isn't there a balm or somethin’ for his shoulders?” Porthos asked as he tied off one long strip of linen and picked up another to cover the rest of the wounds. “The same one you used on ‘is knee, maybe?” 

Aramis shook his own head before Lupin could offer his own medical opinion. “No, not with open wounds in the same area. It could help infection set in, and honestly I'd rather just deal with sore shoulders than that. Everything back there already hurts, anyway. Some added pain won't make much of a difference.” 

“The lad's right,” Lupin offered in a rare show of goodwill towards the man that was arguably one of his worst patients and had driven him to the edge of his wit for years. “And cold compresses in the area would soak the wounds and create a whole different kind of trouble. Since his shoulders aren't actually dislocated, it's better to let them heal on their own.”

“I've gathered,” growled Porthos as he finished up with the bandages, and tugged at the edge of one with his index finger to check on the firmness. “Not too tight, innit?” 

“No, it's fine,” Aramis assured him, and he even graced him with a smile. “Thank you, Porthos. You can sit now, before you collapse.” 

“I won't collapse,” Porthos professed, but he sat down next to his brother on the bed, anyway. He was exhausted- Athos could see it. He pushed himself off the wall and straightened.

“Right, Lupin, if we're done here?” He asked meaningfully and the physician, catching his drift, nodded and set himself to packing his equipment quickly and efficiently. Athos followed him out, with Porthos at their heels, after he made Aramis promise he wouldn't move a muscle before any of them were back. They descended the stairs into the courtyard and Lupin headed off towards his post at the infirmary, while the two musketeers turned the other way towards the mess hall so they could pick up Serge's broth. 

As it were finally the two of them, Athos seized his chance to ask the question that had been nagging at him for the past hour. 

“What are you and Aramis hiding?”

He had expected denial or subterfuge from Porthos, and was thus surprised when the latter answered without any of that. 

“He wants to leave.”

Athos blinked, taken aback- or rather shocked into a momentary stupour, more likely. “Leave?” 

“Give up soldierin’,” Porthos clarified, staring at the dusty tips of his boots. They'd both stopped walking, but Athos had barely noticed. “Somethin’ about making a vow to God, to go become a monk if he lived and the Queen and the Dauphin were safe. Said Milady came in right when he said that, so obviously that must mean he now has to leave us.”

Porthos’ voice had grown angrier as he explained, and Athos felt his chest clenching with renewed concern- this time, for both of his brothers, for God knew how Porthos would take it if Aramis left them. 

“I'll talk to him,” he said immediately, if only to comfort Porthos at the moment. “Perhaps it was just the laudanum speaking, or the pain. Both, even. He's clearly shaken-” 

“He was awake earlier, when we were talkin’ ‘bout him an’ the Queen,” Porthos cut him off, his expression stormy. 

Athos brought his gloved hand to his face and rubbed at the bridge of his nose- of course Aramis had been awake. 

“He thinks you were right. He thinks he deserved-” 

“Stop.” Athos held up the hand that had been touching his face. “Enough of this, Porthos. Aramis is a soldier whether he likes it or not, and he is no stranger to the truth. I am glad he understands his role in all this, but I will talk to him about leaving. He will see reason eventually. You know he always does, even if he's being insufferable about it.”

“...Yes. Sorry.” Porthos hung his head, and Athos allowed a fraction of the tension that held his shoulders up to ease away. “I just… i can’t bear the though of him leavin’ us, Athos.”

“I know. Neither can I.” God above, the mere notion of it felt like tearing a portion of his heart right out of his chest, leaving the rest of it thrashing and writhing in agony as the blood seeped lethally out of it. He clapped Porthos on the shoulder and held his hand there firmly, both to reassure his brother, and comfort himself at the same time in the other man's solid presence. “We won't let him go, Porthos. I swear it. I'll talk to him as soon as he is better. Right now, all I want for him is to rest and heal. There will be time for talking after.” 

“A’ight,” Porthos nodded his assent, and clapped his own hand on the side of Athos' arm, so that they both held each other, finding stability in their bond. “A'ight, I trust you. Captain.”

Athos smiled- he couldn't help it, the softness that crinkled in the corners of his eyes, the warmth in his gaze that he was certain seeped out of him and out towards his brother. 

“Thank you, Porthos. Now let's get our resident idiot some food, before he falls asleep again and swindles us out of our deal.” 

Chapter Text

[ INTERLUDE ]

“Any news?” 

Constance’s hand stilled where it held the ivory handle of the brush that she’d only just started running over the cascade of Anne’s golden hair. 

“What of, your Majesty?” She asked, trying to keep her tone airy, as if she did not know exactly what Anne had been thinking about. Or of whom. 

“You know of what I speak, Constance.” The Queen’s gaze met hers through the surface of the ornate mirror, and the younger woman was struck by the overflow of emotion in those blue eyes. 

Anne had kept herself admirably aloof during the past few days and the fallout of Rochefort’s betrayal and death. She had braved through the trauma she’d endured, had suffered King Louis to touch and hold her again as if he had not fallen for the traitor’s smearing of her name and honour. As if he had not ordered her death. She was holding court as she always had, by his side, glowing in swathes of gold and white and azure in the face of their adoring subjects. She was like a marble statue, heartbreakingly gorgeous and yet so distant, perfectly placed upon a pedestal and standing immovable under blinding light. 

And yet, Constance could see that she was drowning in despair, yearning for news of her beloved musketeer, who had suffered so at the hands of Rochefort, and had further shed his blood to protect her and put an end to the vile traitor once and for all. Last she’d seen Aramis, he’d collapsed at her feet right after running Rochefort through with his sword- he’d laid there, pale and soaked in his own blood, and had it not been for Treville himself assuring her of him still drawing breath, she would have thought him dead. 

Worse still, she could never outright demand to know of his fate- not when the lies Rochefort had spread were still so fresh in the minds of King and court, when the slightest misstep on her part would mean her confirming those lies (that Constance knew, of course, were no lies at all) and ensuring that Aramis would be sentenced to death once and for all. Treville himself had not yet been given any chance of privacy with her, and even if he had, he’d made it clear during their last private meeting what he thought of the matter.

‘You must never speak to, or of him, again, your Majesty, for his sake and your own, and for the future of France. For the life of your son,’ he had told her as he had held Aramis’ unconscious body in his arms, and bid her step away from him. She had not even been allowed to touch him one last time, to say goodbye. And Constance had known, then and there, that Treville would have no further part in the matter. 

Constance thought of d’Artagnan, of the way Jacques Bonacieux had tried to keep them apart. She thought of a time when she’d been in Anne’s shoes, when she had thought that seeing her most beloved again would sentence him to certain doom. She had, in the end, been given a chance with the man she loved, but Anne would never have that privilege. She would only have what Constance chose to give her, only in private moments like these, in her boudoir during the evening, secure from prying ears, from spies or even from the rest of her ladies. 

And worst of it all was… Constance had nothing to give her. 

When Anne had first requested her services, she had asked Constance for her honesty. She had wanted a companion who would not be there to influence her mind, or to spy on her every waking moment. But above all, she had wanted Constance there to always speak her mind, and always speak the truth to her, when nobody else had the nerve to do so in the face of their sovereign. And Constance had been earnest in her efforts to do just that. Thus far, she had never once lied to Anne. 

“Well?” Anne sounded almost breathless, one hand held to her bosom as she gazed pleadingly at Constance through the glass. “Did d’Artagnan not say anything to you?”

It was then, that Constance broke her promise to her Queen. That she lied to her for the first time. 

“No, Majesty,” she answered gently, and she thought bitterly of how apt it was that she was only looking at Anne through the mirror, gazing at a false image of her as she spoke her lie. “He has not woken yet.” 

What else could she tell Anne? That Aramis had opened his eyes? That he had been lucid and in full possession of his faculties, but had refused to send a word to her when d’Artagnan had offered? That there was no news, not because Aramis had yet to regain consciousness, but because he had nothing to say to her? 

No- such a thing would do more than break Anne’s heart. It would shatter her spirit, to think that for whatever reason Aramis wanted nothing to do with her anymore. And Constance was certain that such a thing was not the case, because she had seen the way Aramis had looked at Anne; she had heard him speak of his love for her. In his eyes was a love that could rival any romantic epic, any classic tale of everlasting passion. He belonged to Anne body and soul, he had risked his life for her, had endured torture for her and had fought for her until his body had collapsed at her feet, and if he had nothing to say, surely there must be a good explanation for it. She hadn’t been able to visit him herself yet, but d’Artagnan had mentioned how lifeless he looked, how devoid of his usual cheer. 

Perhaps he simply needed time. 

But she could not convey all of this to Anne in their short, coded conversations, and even if she could, she was not altogether sure Anne would believe her. The Queen trusted Constance’s judgement more than even her own, and yet in matters of the heart, it was not logic that prevailed, but emotion. In her despair, Anne might draw her own conclusions, and dig herself further into heartbreak. 

Constance could not allow that. 

She had to believe she was right about this. She had to believe her lie was only to protect Anne.

And yet as she saw the way Anne’s eyes fluttered and her features twisted in pain, it became harder and harder to cling to that belief. 

“God keep him,” the Queen mouthed, so quiet that even Constance barely heard her. She hunched into herself just slightly, shoulders shaking with a quiet sob as she pressed her hand to her mouth. 

Constance bit the inside of her mouth hard enough to draw blood, as she left the brush on top of the armoire, and bent down to wrap her arms around her Queen. 

God keep you both.

Chapter Text

“I still think this is a terrible idea.”

“Yes, I believe you've mentioned so already. Multiple times, in fact..” 

Porthos’ answering growl did not surprise Aramis, rather it filled him with a sense of normalcy he found himself in desperate need of, these days. After everything they'd been through, Porthos railing at him for getting himself out of bed without Lupin's leave (or Athos’, for that matter), felt like the most effective of balms for his soul. 

Alas, his body did not share the sentiment, and Aramis withheld a soft groan as his various injuries protested his sitting up onto the mattress, no matter how slow and careful he'd been about it. Porthos snorted. 

“Will sayin' it again make any difference?” he asked, and Aramis shook his head. 

“No, I'm afraid not. Please, Porthos, it's been four days. If I go another hour without washing, I fear I shall go mad, and what good would that do any of us?” 

He wasn't wrong, and he knew it, and he knew that Porthos also knew it; Lupin had washed the worst of the blood, sweat and dungeon filth from his skin while treating his wounds, but he had still been trapped in the same bedsheets for days, often sweating on and off due to a light yet persistent fever that had only broken the previous afternoon. Needless to say, it was all most unpleasant. Aramis had always been particular about being clean (like a cat grooming itself, the others often liked to jest), and his latest inability to properly tend to that was adding to what was, frankly, quite enough torment already. 

Porthos had been evidently aware of that, for he didn't try to dissuade him again. Instead, he just gave a resigned sigh. 

“Fine, yes, I s'ppose you're right. But if Athos harasses us about it, it was your idea. I had no choice but to play along.” 

“Well, that is not so far from the truth, is it?” 

Porthos responded with a huff, and set himself to helping Aramis into a loose linen shirt; anything else would be too hard to get into, what with the way he could barely lift his arms halfway up, not to mention a coarser or tighter garment would brush up painfully against the raw lashes on his back. After the shirt came the trousers of his uniform, washed and mended while he was recovering, which made his heart stutter just a little- had it been one of his brothers that had concerned themselves with it, all while running themselves ragged caring for him? 

That familiar feeling of being unworthy of their care and love pricked at him again, but he tried to swallow it down for the sake of Porthos, who was there, and Athos and d'Artagnan, who were not. He gave Porthos a tight smile of thanks as the latter also helped him with his boots, and nodded at his satchel, lying discarded on top of his desk ever since God knew when. He could barely remember the last time he'd slept in this room, before everything had gone to hell. 

“Could you please put a clean change of clothes and a towel in there? And some bandages, maybe.” He would likely need the replacements, if he were to take off the ones already wrapped around his torso in order to wash. He did not wish to think how painful it would be, bathing with open wounds, but it had to be done. 

Porthos nodded, flinging the requested items absentmindedly into the satchel while he glanced around the room. 

“What else? Soap, right?” He rummaged around a shelf that hosted a comb, a shaving blade and some other paraphernalia, letting out a satisfied sound when his hand found a whittled-down bar of lye soap. He put that in the satchel, too, and Aramis couldn't help but notice how well Porthos knew the layout of his room- how well he knew Aramis, too. Porthos knew where Aramis kept everything, anticipated what he would need as if the needs were his own. 

His own words from a few days’ earlier came back to him: what if I can't be a soldier anymore? 

But this- being a soldier, a musketeer, it had never been about the violence and the killing. Sure, the adrenaline of a fight may be what had originally drawn Aramis, alone and shunned by his father, to the regiment. But what had kept him there was so much more than that. What had truly tied him down to these walls, to this line of work, had been the togetherness of it all. The belonging, the knowing that there was always someone who had his back, someone who cared. To Porthos, who had been as lonely as Aramis when he first joined the musketeers, it must have felt the same. It had been why the two of them, and then Athos, so different and yet so similar, had been drawn to each other and formed such an unbreakable bond. 

Porthos had begged him not to leave. Porthos- who never begged for anything from anybody. Who had never even begged for food when he was a starving child. And yet he'd begged Aramis, as if him leaving would spell out a fate worse than death for Porthos. How could Aramis disregard that vulnerability, in itself the ultimate proof of love and trust, that Porthos had shown to him? How could he tear his best friend's -his brother's, his soul's other half- heart out of his chest and trample on it on his way out of the regiment's ranks? 

He had made a vow to God, that day in the dungeons. And yet, would the God he so dearly and fervently believed in -a God Aramis believed wholeheartedly was made of, and preached, love- ask him to do such a thing? To cause such unimaginable pain to himself, Aramis would accept; it would be his burden to bear, his sacrifice, his penance. But to do it to Porthos and Athos… God could never be so cruel. After all, his brothers had done nothing wrong. Why would God seek to punish them the same way He would punish Aramis? 

Surely it must have been something else that was demanded of him. He simply had not worked it out yet. 

But he would. He had to. For Porthos and for Athos- and perhaps, a little bit, for his own soul. For salvation, for absolution of the sins he had committed, of the people he had hurt. 

He closed his eyes and sucked in a slow breath to calm his racing thoughts. There would be time to think about it, to work out what God expected of him and come to a conclusion. It didn't have to be right now. 

Just for the moment, he could simply let himself be in Porthos’ company, get out of bed and this damn room for the first time in days, and pretend, just for a little while, that all was as it should be. 

“You ready?” Porthos had come to stand in front of him, satchel slung over one broad, strong shoulder. Aramis looked up at him, and nodded. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm ready. Let's go.”

The public bathhouse had been a recent addition to the neighbourhood, built a year earlier near the musketeer garrison and the most frequent of the red guard haunts so as to serve both regiments equally. As such, it was only a short distance from the garrison, no more than a five minutes’ walk from the local square. 

It still left Aramis incredibly winded. 

His knee had been hurting much less, and the swelling had disappeared almost entirely, and so, while he had definitely needed assistance in getting down the stairs in the garrison, he had attempted to walk without support for the first few minutes. Regrettably, he and Porthos had only made it a few yards out of the garrison’s gate before he'd had to lean on Porthos’ proffered arm for support. Still, the latter had silently led him on in the direction of their destination, not asking that they turn back. 

He had the distinctive feeling that it was something Aramis was incredibly grateful for. However, gratefulness or no, by the time they made it to the door of the bathhouse, Aramis was pale and breathing heavily through his nose, his eyes clouded with pain that he either would not, or could not conceal. 

“Your knee?” Porthos asked as they hobbled in, looking around warily for any potential red guard patrons. He needn't have worried- the place was deserted. Red guards had been a rare sight across most of the city in general, ever since Rochefort’s fall. Many of them that had collaborated with him or followed his orders without questioning were being detained in the Chatelet, and the few that had been deemed loyal to the crown were too ashamed to show their faces and mostly remained within the confines of their own garrison, near the palace. It suited Porthos just fine. He would not have them see Aramis like this, torn down and hurting. God knew the man had suffered indignity enough already, and Porthos would spare him any more of it, if he had anything to say about it. 

Aramis lowered his eyes, likely having been concerned with the possible presence of red guards, too. Reassured that there were none, he shook his head. 

“No, no. It's just a little stiff.” 

“Then?” 

“My back. Mostly.” He looked ashamed to be admitting it, not meeting Porthos’s eyes, and the latter wanted to punch him for it. Might have tried, had he not been assured that it would do nothing but bring him more pain. It would certainly be nowhere near enough to knock some sense into that thick head of his. 

Instead, he decided that the most productive course of action to reduce Aramis’ discomfort would be to do what they'd come to the bathhouse to do, get it over with, and return home so he could rest. 

“Maybe sittin’ down for a bit will make you feel better. Let’s go.” 

They descended to the lower level, which was built halfway below the ground. There was a square pool of water in the middle of the room, large enough to fit some five or six grown men at once, with wooden benches spread around it for the patrons to leave their belongings or simply lounge after washing. The hall was interspersed with braziers that made the room stiflingly hot, and the water itself was warmed by coals inserted underneath the pool's floor through means which Porthos was neither fully aware of nor cared much for. 

He helped Aramis down on one of the benches closest to the water, and helped him take off his shirt just as he'd helped put it on. The rest, however, Aramis insisted that he do on his own. Porthos did not begrudge him; while they'd both seen each other (and Athos) naked more times than either of them could count, he was aware that feeling as if he weren't even able to take off his own damn smallclothes would put even more of a damper on Aramis’ already fraying mood. So instead, Porthos focused on undressing himself, and when he was ready, he turned back to Aramis. 

“You want me to take those off, at least?” He gestured to the bandages still wrapped around Aramis’ shoulders and midsection, the only other thing, aside from his shirt, he had not been able to get off by himself. 

In response, Aramis ducked his head slightly.

“Please.” 

Porthos snorted as he set to unwrapping the bandages, strips of linen coming loose easily in his hands. Some parts, he noticed, were stained with new blood. “What would you do without me?”

“Be dead fifty times over, most likely. But so would you, without me and Athos. So don't get too cocky.”

“Don’t say that word while we're both naked.” 

It was a clumsy one at best, but Porthos grinned cheekily when the joke brought a small chuckle out of Aramis. 

With the dirty bandages discarded to the side of the bench, Porthos once again took Aramis’ arm to help him to the water. Closer to the edge, the tiled floor was wet and slippery under their feet, and Porthos cursed. 

“If you slip an’ we fall, I'll kill you.” 

“How do I know you won't slip? You're clumsier than I am.”

“You're literally only standin’ right now because I'm holdin’ you up. Choose your next words carefully.” 

“...Fair point.” 

Thankfully, they made it without anyone slipping and smashing their head open like an egg on the floor, and although getting Aramis safely into the water took some skillful maneuvering from Porthos, in the end they found themselves standing in it, submerged to the hip. 

In the golden firelight flickering from the brazier and glimmering off the surface of the water, Porthos thought that Aramis looked incredibly fragile, the hollows of the dips above his hips, collarbone and eyes seeming deeper, more pronounced. The younger man seemed distracted, looking absently at the water and trailing one hand over the surface, making little waves that lapped up against Porthos’ lower belly. 

What might have Aramis been thinking? Porthos did not know. His mind flashed back to their conversation a few days ago, about Aramis wanting to give up soldiering. To leave them. 

To leave him. 

Was Aramis still running the dilemma over in his head, right at this moment? Had he come to a decision already? Porthos was almost certain he and Athos would have known about it had he done so indeed, but… 

…but he didn't want to ask. He didn't want to know. 

Not now. Not when things were almost normal, not when they were here, not when he could just focus on taking care of Aramis like he'd done so many times in the past, like Aramis had done with him. 

“Sit down?” Porthos asked softly, offering up his hand so that Aramis could use it for support if he wished to. The younger man winced slightly, the twitch of his mouth exacerbated in the dim, orange light. 

“It’s going to hurt like hell.” 

“Why not jus’ get it over it, then?” I'm here. You won't have to hurt alone. 

Perhaps Aramis read the words in his eyes, because his troubled expression softened, just a little bit. 

“Alright. Getting it over with.” 

Wet, slippery fingers clasped his, and Aramis braced his free hand to the edge of the pool in order to slowly lower himself into a sitting position. As soon as the flayed part of his back was in the water, Aramis tensed. Porthos saw the exact moment the sensation registered, and he winced in sympathy when Aramis screwed his eyes shut and bared his teeth in a pained hiss. 

“Ah! God,” he ground out, his hand squeezing Porthos’ hard enough to bruise. Porthos hummed a comforting noise, stepping just a little closer so he could place his free hand on Aramis’ shoulder. 

“‘s okay. I'm here.” Just trust me.

Aramis nodded with a small whimper that Porthos graciously pretended not to hear, and a few heartbeats later his fingers began to loose their death grip around Porthos’ as the pain gradually eased, the first shock of the sensation fading. When Aramis seemed to once again be in control of himself, Porthos let go of his hand and lowered himself into the water as well. It was pleasantly warm but not too hot, and he let out a long, satisfied groan- already he could feel the tense muscles on his back and legs loosening up. 

“Feels good, yeah?” he asked Aramis, who nodded, his eyes half-lidded as he leaned against the side of the pool for support. 

“Yes, quite. Doesn't hurt as much as I feared- well, apart from the start, that is” He sighed softly, seemingly relaxing into the warmth. “It just… stings a bit. But it's fine. I'm fine.” 

Porthos smiled a little, and playfully splashed a bit of water onto Aramis’ face. The marksman snorted, jerking his head back with a small laugh. 

“Very mature, cher.” 

“Never claimed to be mature. That's you an’ Athos’ thing- hey!” 

Porthos attempted to glare, but with water having now gotten into his eyes, the effect was quite diminished as he had to blink to clear his vision. When he finally managed to, it was to find Aramis grinning mischievously back at him. 

“I never claimed to be mature, either. It's only Athos, really.” 

“You're so lucky you're injured right now.” 

Aramis snorted. “If I'm to go through that much shit, I better take advantage of it, eh?”

“You're the worst.” 

“After you.” 

Porthos made a show of looking heavenward with as much exasperation as he could physically muster. 

“Let's get this over with before I actually decide to drown you. We have to be back before Athos notices we're gone anyway- he'll be mad I helped yout sneak out, an’ he'll only punish me considering the state you're in.” 

Aramis murmured something about how terribly sorry he was to be unable to be stuck on mucking duty by Porthos’ side, which the latter pointedly -and rather graciously, he thought- ignored in order to briefly climb out of the water, and retrieve the bar of lye soap from their satchel. He handed it to Aramis then slipped back in, leaning back against the rim and relaxing while the younger man began to methodically wash himself. 

Like a cat grooming itself, Porthos thought, and smiled a little. 

Truly, what would he do without this beloved idiot and his antics? 

Don't think about that. Don't think about Aramis leaving. 

Desperate to avoid precisely that train of thought, Porthos simply watched as Aramis scrubbed himself clean with slow, somewhat clumsy movements. The clumsiness didn't suit him- not their efficient marksman, who moved about with the grace and certainty of a lithe cat… or a wolf stalking its prey. It spoke of lingering pains and stiffness that would no doubt remain for a while, and Porthos winced in sympathy when he saw Aramis hiss, after an aborted attempt to raise his arms high enough to wash his hair. 

“Want some help?” Porthos suggested, part of him expecting to be rebuffed. But Aramis nodded dejectedly, aching arms dropping by his sides with a splash. 

“Suit yourself,” was the shame-riddled reply, and Porthos hummed in sympathy as he took the bar of soap -now reduced to less than half its original size- from Aramis’ stiff fingers.

“You heard what Lupin said, you shouldn't put more strain on your shoulders for a while.” 

Aramis snorted. 

“Trust me, I know. If I were to listen to him, he'd likely order me not to breathe for a while, too.” 

“Eh, dunno. May save us a lot of trouble in the future.” 

“You're always so funny, Porthos.” 

Porthos chuckled under his breath. “Jus’ shut up and come over here so we can finish up here an' go home already.”

“Alright, alright, no need to get pushy…” Aramis scooted over to where Porthos was, and lowered himself back down into the water again, until it lapped gently against his scarred throat, the jagged wounds there black and scabbing. Porthos, for his part, stood up a little straighter so that he would be able to comfortably reach the dark, tangled mess that was Aramis’ hair. When the man in question was all settled, Porthos rubbed the soap into his hands enough to create a generous lather on his palms, and set to work. 

At first, he was gentle in getting enough soap on Aramis’ head, his movements careful and precise, in fear of causing any further pain to his injured brother. However, Aramis seemed to almost immediately relax into the touch (as he were wont to do when it came to physical contact), so Porthos eventually put a little more force into his hands and set to untangling the marksman’s dark curls. Every so often, he would pause to pour some water over Aramis’ head with one cupped palm, careful to not let any of the soapy runoff drip forward and into the latter’s eyes. 

After a few minutes of it, Porthos decided that he had done what he could, and that Aramis’ hair looked as clean as it would get, a softness and shine restored to the previously limp, matted mess. He was about to announce he was done, but something held him back, and instead, he let his hand trail from Aramis’ scalp to the nape of his neck, then a little lower, to the juncture between his neck and shoulder. Callused fingers lingered there against warm, moist skin, right above to the edge of a whip mark deep enough that it had to have been stitched shut. The rest of it faded into the water, and Porthos made a mental note to have Lupin check on those stitches as soon as they were back at the garrison, and make sure the water hadn't done any damage to them. 

They remained like that for a few heartbeats, unmoving, with Porthos’ hand laying on Aramis’ shoulder, the touch gentle in order to not aggravate any ache still lingering there. Absently, his thumb moved in slow, soothing circles, and he heard Aramis let out a soft, trembling exhale and relax further into the touch. The other man’s head turned backwards just slightly, as if searching for him. 

“...Porthos?” His voice was no more than a whisper. “What is it?” 

Don't leave. Please. 

With what felt almost like physical pain, Porthos withdrew his hand and braced himself against the stone behind him. 

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Let's go. I'll help you out.” 

If his voice sounded a little off, Aramis didn't point it out. He simply let Porthos lead him out of the water, which proved a tad easier than getting him in, now that the warmth had helped his joints and muscles relax. Porthos then had him sit on the bench and helped him dry off, replace the bandages around his torso, and dress into the fresh change of clothes they'd brought with them. After, while Aramis gathered his strength for the walk home, Porthos dried and dressed himself as well, then stood, looking down at Aramis who had by that time leaned with one shoulder against the wall, eyes half-lidded and breath coming out easy and steady. Porthos chuckled. 

“C'mon, you sleeping damsel. Time to get you home.” And face Athos’ wrath, most likely, because by that time they'd been gone long enough that he'd doubtless have noticed. But, seeing how at ease Aramis looked, Porthos decided that the incoming chaos would be worth it. 

He led Aramis back out again -taking a bit more of his weight as they went up the stairs that he had done when they were going down, but that was to be expected- and they made their slow way back. If any of the passerby citizens found the sigh of two seemingly drunk musketeers making their way through the city in the middle of the day at all strange, they did not stop to question it, and soon, the pair was crossing the gates back into the garrison again. 

Porthos had planned to take Aramis straight back to his room in the case that, by some miracle, Athos had still not realised they were missing, and pretend they'd never left. But as they passed the yard, he caught Aramis looking longingly up at the pale sun, and at the cadets training in the open space below Treville’s office (Athos’ office now, Porthos reminded himself). 

Then, he frowned. 

“Aramis…” he warned, but the marksman threw him such a pleading brown-eyed look that he physically felt his defenses crumble. 

“Just for a short while?” Aramis all but begged. “Fresh air will do me good, and besides, I want to rest my leg a bit before we have to go up the stairs again.” 

That part was probably true, but Porthos did not much appreciate the way it was being used against him, especially since Aramis usually refused to admit such weaknesses and powered on even to his own detriment. Alas, he knew Porthos too well. 

“Fine,” he assented, and changed their course so that he'd walk Aramis to the benches and tables in front of the mess hall. “But no more than twenty minutes, an’ if Athos gets on our arses about it, I'm throwin’ you to the wolves.” 

“Yes yes, alright,” Aramis eagerly agreed, obviously too pleased with the turn things had taken to put up a fight against the last part, and Porthos had to admit that seeing him this happy after so many days of a dark and somber mood, made the inevitable earful they'd receive from Athos almost worth it.

They sat together on one of the benches, and old Serge soon limped his way out of his beloved kitchen to greet them. In his hands he held two mugs.

“Aramis, lad! Good to see you out and about again.” He placed a mug in front of each of the two men, and Porthos saw it was full of ale- evidently, Aramis’ recuperation entitled both of them to an extra ration, which he decided he could live with. 

Aramis, for his part, gave Serge his most charming smile. “Ah, you know me, Serge. Can't keep me cooped up too long, I start getting restless.” 

“Of that, I'm sure. ‘sides, I'd bet that all your lady friends already miss you. I doubt that nonsense about the Queen the filthy traitor came up with would've changed that.” 

At the mention of the incident with Rochefort and the Queen, Porthos tensed minimally, glancing Aramis’ way just in time to see his smile falter. It was less than a heartbeat before he regained his confidence, and Porthos doubted Serge had noticed anything, but- he had. It made him worry. 

“I'm done with these matters for the time being, I'm afraid. Not too keen to get my head back on the chopping block because of some nasty rumour.” He leaned against the table on one elbow and cupped his ale into both hands, which Porthos realised with a jolt of panic was to hide a subtle tremor in them. “I'm a changed man, Serge. No more dalliances and follies- just focusing on my duty.” 

Now that seemed to strike even Serge as weird, which Porthos supposed made sense considering the old man had known Aramis ever since the latter had been but a young boy, and could probably sniff out his horseshit almost as well as Treville. Still, he only raised a doubtful eyebrow and shrugged. 

“Now why don't I believe that?” He teased, but pressed no further, and instead asked them both if they wanted something to eat. Porthos politely declined, and was not surprised to see Aramis follow suit. Pleased that his soldiers’ needs had been met for the time being, Serge hobbled off with a wave of his hand, leaving the pair alone once more. 

As soon as he was out of sight and earshot, Porthos leaned closer to Aramis. 

“You alright?”

“Of course. Why wouldn't I be?” Aramis granted him another faltering smile, and Porthos silently weighed the merits of dunking the ale he was drinking over his freshly washed brother. If that wouldn't have meant all his effort of taking Aramis to the bathhouse would go to waste, he might have gone ahead with it. 

Instead, he decided to ask, “did you mean it?” 

Aramis blinked, taken aback; evidently, he had expected to be given at least a little bit of crap over his pathetic lie. Porthos mentally applauded this newfound self-awareness. 

“Did I mean what?” 

“Not sleeping around anymore,” Porthos clarified, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. Aramis soon mimicked him, his smile dimming as he looked down at his ale. 

“I do,” he replied softly. “I won't get us in trouble again, Porthos. Athos is captain now, he has more important things to worry about than dealing with my vices, and… I just don't want you to be in danger because of me again, if I can avoid it. And that's the one thing I can avoid, the one thing that's entirely up to me. So… yes. I mean it. I'm done with this kind of thing.” 

The worst part, Porthos realised with a start, was that he could tell Aramis absolutely meant it. He'd claimed he'd try to rein in his passions in the past, but it had always been with the air of a joke, or right after a short-lived heartbreak while he was deep in his cups. This… This was different. There was no hint of humour in his tone that Porthos could detect, and he looked as serious as he did when talking about his faith. Plainly, he meant to stick by his decision. 

Porthos should be grateful. He should be proud, even, that his brother had finally decided to stop putting his head (and theirs) on the line just because he seemed unable to stop thinking with his cock. He should be relieved. 

He hated it. 

He hated how downtrodden Aramis looked. How… resigned. Lifeless, once more.

And because things clearly weren't bad enough already, before he could stop himself, Porthos asked softly, “do you still love her?” 

He regretted it with his entire being, when he saw the way Aramis curled in on himself as if someone had plunged a blade into his gut, his breath leaving him in a pained exhale. 

“Do not ask me that,” he whispered, and his voice broke in the end. 

“But-” 

“Please!” Aramis turned to look at him, and although his eyes were as dry as sand, there was such inescapable pain hidden in their brown depths that Porthos felt it dig into his own heart. “Please, Porthos. Let's talk about anything else. Anything you want. I beg you.” 

Porthos swallowed against the sudden knot in the back of his throat, and nodded, lifting one hand to pry Aramis’ from around the mug of ale and squeeze it gently.

“Alright,” he promised. “Anything else. What d’ you want to talk about, ‘Mis?” 

Aramis closed his eyes and sucked in a deep, slow breath through his nose, before letting it out through his mouth. He squeezed Porthos’ hand back, once, then opened his eyes again. Some semblance of calm seemed to return to him. 

“How about d’Artagnan and Constance?” he asked, the ghost of a smile making the edge of his mouth twitch. “They seem to be spending even more time together these-” 

“What in the seven hells do you two think you're doing?” 

Porthos winced. Well, at least the wait was over. He turned from his mug to greet Athos, who stood over their table with a storm brewing in his steel-gray glare. 

“‘Mis wanted some air,” he said with a shrug. “Would've liked to see you keepin’ him cooped up in a room when he's gotten it into his thick head to get out.” 

Aramis, apparently emboldened by Porthos’ intercession on his behalf, lifted up his mug as far as his stiff arm allowed him. “Ale?” 

“I will kill you both,” Athos stated matter of factly, then plopped down next to Aramis with a grunt, grabbed the mug out of the other man’s hand and took a long swig. Aramis snorted. 

“Could have started with ‘good day’.” 

“Could have stayed in bed.” 

“You're no fun, Athos.” 

“One would think you'd have finally accepted that, after all these years.” Still, Athos’ severe expression broke with a small, fond smile reserved only for the two of them. “That said, I am glad to see you on your feet. Sort of, anyway.” 

Porthos groaned. “Next time, you take him to the bathhouse. Had to almost carry him all the way there an' back.” 

“Porthos!” Aramis complained, their previous conversation seemingly forgotten- although Porthos would bet his right hand that Aramis would not so easily get over it. He briefly toyed with the idea of discussing it with Athos, but quickly discarded it- considering how things had gone down between him and Milady, Porthos decided he'd have more luck bringing the topic up with his own horse. 

Athos, in the meantime, made a show of rolling his eyes. 

“You have a brush with death, can't even stand up to piss without help for four days, and the first thing you do after getting back on your feet is fuss over being clean. Like a cat gr-”

“-grooming itself,” Porthos and Aramis completed the sentence alongside Athos, Porthos with a smirk and Aramis with an exasperated eyeroll of his own. Immediately after, all three of them burst into laughter. 

And oh, had Porthos never been happier to hear Aramis laugh. 

“You know me too well, you two,” Aramis admitted, shaking his head fondly. “But you're one to talk, Athos. A nobleman like yourself, judging someone for fussing over being prim and proper? It's like the pot calling the kettle black.” 

“Porthos likes being clean, too,” Athos pointed out with a shrug, and Porthos huffed. 

“If you'd grown up on the streets you'd appreciate the chance to clean yourself more, too,” he muttered, and Aramis smiled at him. He snatched his mug back from Athos with speed that Porthos found impressive considering his physical state, and raised it as far as his arm could bear it for a toast. 

“To not being unwashed bumpkins,” he declared, and took a small sip before handing the drink back to Athos so the latter could partake of the toast, too. Porthos chuckled and downed the rest of his own fill. 

They sat together for a short while after that- no more than an hour, since Athos’ schedule had suddenly become full on account of his promotion, but enough that they were able to idly chat about this and that. Unimportant, mundane topics, sharing jokes and memories of the chaos they'd stirred up together while under Treville's command. For that short yet blissful time, Porthos found himself almost able to trick his mind into thinking nothing had changed. D'Artagnan joined them eventually, returning from a trip to the palace where he'd gone to visit Constance, and he entertained them with meaningless gossip from the Louvre (careful, Porthos noticed, to avoid any and all mentions of the Queen). 

“Alright,” Athos eventually said with a hint of regret in his voice. “There are things we need to tend to. D’Artagnan, would you mind taking Aramis up to his room? I need Porthos to help me with the cadets’ training schedule, and maybe start showing them the basics in hand-to-hand combat later today. We've fallen behind, and I need at least one of you to help me run things. Aramis, I expect you to take up teaching the cadets how to shoot as soon as you've recovered.” 

“Can't wait,” Aramis said with a small, tired grin. He was slouching more and more as time passed, and Porthos had observed that his face was drawn again, although he was masking whatever pained him quite well. “None of them is ever going to be as good as me, of course, but we could do with a few more well-trained snipers.” 

“How modest,” d’Artagnan teased, then slipped his arm low over Aramis’ waist, skillfully avoiding the worst of the wounds on his back. “C’mon, o great sharpshooter. Let's get you to bed before you collapse and make a fool of yourself in front of your future trainees.” 

Porthos looked anxiously between Aramis, Athos and d'Artagnan. For some reason, he found himself reluctant to leave his injured brother. Well, more reluctant than usual, that was, perhaps due to the anguish he'd seen take over Aramis earlier. 

Athos must have caught him looking, because he clapped his shoulder gently. “No need to fuss, Porthos. D’Artagnan’s bedside manners could use some practice, but he's going to take good care of our Aramis.” 

“Of course I will.” D’Artagnan winked down at the marksman. “You've taken such good care of me every time I've gone and hurt myself. I should pay you back.” 

Porthos found that he could not press the matter further without arousing Athos’ suspicions, and despite his eagerness to share his concerns with someone, he knew that, right now, it would scarcely benefit Aramis if Athos heard about his near-breakdown. He could only hope to discuss the matter with Aramis himself at some other time, when the marksman felt ready to open his heart to Porthos about it, since he clearly hadn’t been in a place to do so earlier. 

“Yeah, well, can’t argue with that,” he admitted, determined to make sure Athos didn’t catch a whiff of his inner turmoil. He accentuated his remark with a mock glare in d’Artagnan’s direction. “You better make sure he’s alright, Pup, or else…”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure d’Artagnan will dread you for as long as he lives,” Athos waved him off, and stirred him gently away from the other two men and towards the outer staircase leading to his office. “Now, come. We have work to do.” 

For naught but a second, Porthos wished he had been the one to be dragged through Hell by Rochefort and on mandatory bed rest, instead. 

It was going to be a long afternoon.