Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Author's New Note: This is a fic I wrote almost two years ago and posted somewhere else, but now I'm also sharing it here! At the time I posted all the chapters at once due to the story being completed, and I'll do so now. All my further author notes are from when this was first posted in 10/23.

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Author's Note: I do not own these characters! They belong to the BBC. This is my first fanfiction - I am a writer who is used to creating my own characters, so this is new for me. However, after reading fanfics for so long, I finally had to try it myself. I am a huge whumper, so there will be a lot of that plus some much needed fluff happening... ;-D Anyways, here's my attempt at some D'artagnan whump, as well as a little drama between him and Constance (I absolutely love her - and I absolutely can't stand the way Monsieur Bonacieux treats her, coming from someone who's witnessed abuse firsthand...so it makes my blood boil.). I had this set sometime during season 2 in my mind, and I particularly drew inspiration from events that actually happened in episode 7. Alright, without further ado, hope you enjoy.

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Just A Little Help

Chapter One

D'artagnan made his way down the dusty street past townsfolk hastily finishing the last of their duties for the day. He had just returned from fetching a few apples in the market, which he had been craving throughout the long day of training in the garrison. He was looking forward to maybe getting a little more rest tonight, as he was technically off-duty until morning.

Passing by the Bonacieux home, D'artagnan slowed his walk a bit and nearly decided to stop and say a hello to Constance. However, he could hear conversation drifting out from the open window and could tell that Monsieur Bonacieux was home and, by the tone and volume of his voice, not in the best of moods. D'artagnan felt the urge to go and protect Constance from his behavior, but he knew he might make more trouble for her later. The sound of a dish breaking was what made him halt suddenly and stiffen a bit. D'artagnan quickly changed his mind. He could not ignore what obviously was a little more than a simple argument.

Hurrying up to the door, D'artagnan rapped his knuckles on the wood. He slung the now forgotten small leather bag of apples over his head, freeing both his hands for whatever might happen next. A lot of shuffling was heard before the latch was undone and the door was pulled open slightly. Constance peered through the few inches of space, and the instant she saw D'artagnan, she pulled the door open wider. Immediately, D'artagnan's insides churned with anger. Constance's face was streaked with tears, and her eyes were red. D'artagnan resolved then and there that he was not about to leave until things were set right here.

"D'artagnan? Why are you here?" Constance asked, giving the slightest sniff and blinking her eyes to rid herself of the last few tears still visible.

"Nevermind why," D'artagnan said. He looked at her pointedly. "What has he done to you?"

"Nothing," Constance replied quickly, biting her lip.

"No, this isn't nothing," D'artagnan said, his frustration mounting.

"D'artagnan, please," Constance said, looking at him with pleading eyes. "You might make him angrier. He is just upset about something else and took it out on me. It's alright, I'm used to it."

"It's not alright, Constance. It's not alright at all." D'artagnan stepped closer. "Perhaps you should come take a walk with me? Get out of the house for a bit?"

Constance seemed to be relieved a little at the thought. "Maybe," she said. "I'll–"

"Constance!" Monsieur Bonacieux's voice called suddenly. "Who is that?"

Constance froze for a moment, and then called back in reply. "No one of great importance, really. They are leaving now. I will say, I might step outside for a bit of fresh air."

Before Constance or D'artagnan could say another word or move another inch, the door was suddenly pulled open wider. Constance jumped slightly, having not realized her husband had come up behind her. The moment Monsieur Bonacieux's gaze met D'artagnan's, he practically scowled.

"A bit of fresh air, eh?" he asked Constance in a mocking tone. "And what are you doing here, Musketeer?"

"Checking on a friend's welfare, monsieur," D'artagnan replied coolly. His hands were clenched so tightly that they nearly hurt.

"Indeed," Monsieur Bonacieux said with a huff of annoyance. "You expect me to believe that is the only reason. You are intruding on our lives. These are personal matters which do not involve you. Go on, get away with you, Musketeer. You are not welcome here. Ever." The last word was spoken as though it tasted bitter in the man's mouth.

D'artagnan opened his mouth to protest and give a sharp reply, but a quick glance at Constance made him stop short. She was shaking her head very subtly and giving him wide, pleading eyes. Fine. He would deal with this later. This was not over.

"Alright. I'll go. I was trying to offer just a little help. I wanted to make sure Constance was doing well.." D'artagnan looked back over at the irritated man standing before him.

"And now that you've seen her, you may leave. Now," Monsieur Bonacieux said, his voice clipped.

D'artagnan did not say another word, but with a nod of understanding to Monsieur Bonacieux, and another nod to Constance with a silent apology, he turned on his heel and left. It was against his better judgment, but he knew there was not a whole lot more he could do at the moment. For now.

Retreating back to the street, D'artagnan tried not to hit something out of frustration. He did not know how much longer he could take seeing Constance being treated in such a manner. As he was contemplating this, he was distracted enough to be suddenly taken by surprise when a hand came from nowhere, trying to snatch the leather pack of apples he carried.

"Hey!" he snapped quickly. The thief, a tall and thin beggar man with a dirty beard, growled back at him in response, frustrated that he had failed to grab the bag. D'artagnan felt a thread of compassion for the obviously starving man, and fished out an apple, tossing it to him. "Here. All you have to do is ask."

To his surprise, though, the man threw the apple back at him. "I don't want yer food, Musketeer, I want yer purse!"

"Alright, you want money?" D'artagnan asked, reaching for his pouch of coins. He pulled out two coins. "Here, two livres. That should help you some."

But the beggar was still unhappy he was only getting a portion of D'artagnan's money. So, he did the only logical thing he could think of. He pulled out a knife. D'artagnan saw the glint of the fading sun of the weapon, and reacted instinctively. He dodged the offending blade and managed to disarm the man quite smoothly. However, he was unaware of the man's accomplice until the beggar's eyes flicked to look at something - or someone - behind him. D'artagnan whirled about to neutralize the second threat. But he was a couple seconds too late. The second beggar man, nay a youth with a dirt smudged face, brandished another dagger in his hands. And in the blink of an eye, he had plunged it up into D'artagnan's left side, just under his ribs. A pained, near silent gasp flew from D'artagnan's mouth as he hit the wall behind him with his back. After this, he stared at the man who had just stabbed him, a little dazed and shocked at the reality of it. The young beggar yanked out the dagger, swiped D'artagnan's pouch of money, and the bag of apples, and took off with the first beggar man, leaving the Musketeer slumped against the wall.

D'artagnan reached up and pressed his right hand against his wound, wincing at the sharp, burning pain it caused. He glanced down and was surprised at how much blood was already saturating his clothing and leather armor, and how it dripped onto the ground below. He pulled his hand away and saw how much red was on his hand. It was too much…was it not? He wondered. He knew he needed help - the blade had gone deep; this was no mere scratch. He placed his hand back on the wound.

Bracing himself, he pushed off from the wall and tried to get his bearings again. He saw that he had barely gone thirty paces from the Bonacieux home, and he also realized that he was closer to their place than he was to the garrison. Of course, he had just been sent away from the Bonacieux residence, never to return. D'artagnan looked about at the other homes nearby and thought how he could take his chances at being helped by someone else. But perhaps…would not Monsieur Bonacieux make an exception? Surely he would see that this time, he needed serious help, and would not be intruding on any personal matters. And he knew Constance would be able to help him, undoubtedly. Therefore, D'artagnan willed himself towards the house where he had just been unwelcomed.

When he had at last managed to get to the door, he finally noticed the silence that came from the window now. He hoped that was a good sign. Lifting up his bloodied, shaking hand, D'artagnan knocked on the door. After a few long moments, he could hear someone coming at last. The door cracked open, and then swung wide. It was Constance again, and she took in D'artagnan's state with her mouth agape.

"D'artagnan! What happened!" she asked.

"I was robbed by some beggar thieves," D'artagnan replied, surprising himself with how raspy his voice sounded. He could feel how lightheaded he was becoming, and guessed he probably looked extremely pale by now from the blood loss. Which he was getting concerned about just a little. It felt like he was losing too much too fast, like there was a leak he couldn't stop. "Please," he said, hoarsely. "I need some help."

Constance was already moving toward him before he had even said please, and she was in the process of trying to assist him inside when her husband appeared near the doorway from another room.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "Did I not just tell you to leave and stay away from here, Musketeer?"

"Jacques! Stop, he's hurt! Can't you see?" Constance spoke in an exasperated tone.

"I can see perfectly well, thank you," Monsieur Bonacieux said curtly. "And I know he can get as much help as he needs back with his own fellow Musketeers and a physician."

"But he can't make it back to the garrison like this!" Constance protested. "Just let me help him!"

"I will not allow you to touch this man again, Constance!" Monsieur Bonacieux said, his voice raising slightly. "I have had enough of it already."

"This is different–" Constance began, but she was cut off by D'artagnan, who placed a blood stained hand on hers.

"It's alright, Constance," he said, hoping to assure her. "I can make it to the garrison just fine. I was wrong to come back here so soon. I wasn't thinking straight."

"No, D'artagnan–" Constance tried, shaking her head.

"Please, Constance," D'artagnan said, straightening himself and putting on a fake smile. "I'm not hurt that bad. It's just a scratch. Don't worry." He gazed into her eyes and resisted the urge to touch her cheek and brush away the lone tear that had fallen. "I will make sure word is sent to you when I make it safely to the garrison. He's right, we have an excellent physician and there are plenty of others who can help me. Don't feel bad," he added.

Constance did not seem convinced in the slightest, but she merely stepped back and gave the barest nod. "You be careful. Please." she whispered, probably not trusting herself to potentially lose to her emotions if she didn't.

"I will, don't worry," D'artagnan repeated. He didn't even give Monsieur Bonacieux a glance, but was stopped short when the man stepped out to stand by his wife's side and then spoke.

"I can send someone to accompany you," he said, the strangest hint of concern in his voice.

D'artagnan looked up in surprise, and saw how the man who hated him seemed to show signs of worry. Perhaps he was thinking that the young Musketeer might drop dead on his way and it would be his fault for refusing to help.

"No, it's alright," D'artagnan said, waving a hand. "I'll be fine. Once I find just a little help." He nodded to the Bonacieux couple, turned, and walked away. He did not look back. And so he missed the way that Constance spun around on her husband after she lost sight of D'artagnan, called him a cruel, unfeeling man, and was struck on the mouth for her efforts. He did not see how she stepped back and then ran off, ignoring her husband's shouts of demands she stop and come back. No, this would have been the last thing D'artagnan needed to see, for he would have tackled Monsieur Bonacieux for certain, which would have been the worst for his state right now.

As soon as he had left the sight of the Bonacieux home, D'artagnan dropped his facade and nearly doubled over, catching himself on the wall of a building nearby. There was no one around that noticed him, and anyone who was there was too far for him to ask for assistance. And then, he was not sure if any of them would help him after all. It was not easy finding help, which he had discovered in the past as well. This made him grateful time and time again that he had some friends who he knew did care enough for him. Now, if only he could get to them before he passed out.

D'artagnan pushed off of the wall and began shuffling on toward the garrison, but the more steps he took, the harder it was to ignore the fiery pain that shot up and down the left side of his body. He could hear himself panting, and sweat rolled down his temples and into the stubble on his face. The sun had fully set now, but the light of day was still there enough that he could see perfectly. But his vision was blurring again and again as he stumbled along. It was soon becoming harder and harder to recognize where he was, and he was quite confused as to how he would get himself so disoriented. He knew these streets well, and hardly had he ever lost his way. After a short while, he made the mistake of looking down at himself and noticing the rivulets of blood flowing through his fingers where he clutched at his left side just under his ribs. It made him feel extremely light headed to the point of collapse. Realizing he was alone in the small alleyway he was nearly through, he tried to hold himself up with the wall once more. But it was too much. His body was finally done with the torture of walking in his state, and he lost the senses in his legs. The lack of feeling spread rapidly through him, and soon he was blinking dizzily, wondering how he had ended up suddenly sprawled on the ground against the wall, which barely supported his head and shoulders in an awkward manner. He knew it was a terrible position to be in, and that it should have felt uncomfortable, but he simply couldn't move. He felt utterly helpless, and that scared him. He chastised himself for having gotten into this trouble in the first place. If only he had paid more attention, perhaps, and was able to perceive that there were two thieves instead of one. He also vaguely wished he had taken up Monsieur Bonacieux's unusual offer of someone accompanying him. All he could do now was fight the desire that his exhausted body longed for - to fall into oblivious sleep - and hope some soul would show a thread of compassion and give him just a little help before it was too late.

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Note: I actually have this story completed - I didn't know if I would still make these chapters or upload the whole thing together, BUT...since I'm impatient and want to post them all now, I'll do it - still as chapters. You're welcome. ;-D

Chapter Text

Author's Note: Once again, I do not own these characters! Unfortunately.

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Chapter Two

"You're right," Porthos said, breaking the silence. He was sitting next to Aramis, sharpening his main-gauche.

Aramis had just finished cleaning his flintlock pistol, and he set it down on the table behind him. "Right about what?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

"About D'artagnan. He probably stopped at the Bonacieux home. Most likely why he's not back yet."

"Ah," Aramis replied, giving a nod. "If I were to pass by the house of the lady I loved, I would find it difficult to ignore the urge to see her as well."

"Well, I suppose I'll have to give up on having any delicious apple slices this evening." Porthos rose from his seat, sheathing his short blade. "I might actually try to get some extra rest tonight. It's not often we're given a day off."

"I plan to visit a friend tomorrow," Aramis said, standing as well. "Or at least, I hope to. I don't know if she is back in Paris as of yet. I suppose I will find out."

"Where's Athos?" Porthos suddenly asked, twisting about as if he were expecting to find the other missing member of their group.

"Last I saw him, he was talking with Treville," Aramis replied.

"Hope it's not about something that'll spoil our time off," Porthos grumbled.

"Relax, my friend," Aramis placed a hand on his larger friend's shoulder. "Treville promised he would only commission us if anything very serious takes place. I am sure–" He trailed off when he noticed a woman come running into the garrison. Porthos turned as well to see what he was looking at.

It was Constance, and the frightened look on her face, along with the flowing tears and bruised jaw made both the Musketeers who knew her well rush to her side.

"Are you alright? Is there someone after you?" Porthos asked, looking ready to protect her from whatever foe that had terrified and hurt her so.

Aramis reached out to touch her black and blue jaw, wincing slightly. "I can help you care for that. Whoever did this to you?"

"That's not important right now, Aramis. I'm alright," Constance said quickly, still a little out of breath.

"That does not look like you're alright," Porthos growled, his voice giving away his obvious anger at the fact their friend was hurt.

"Is D'artagnan here?" Constance asked, looking very anxious.

"No," Aramis replied slowly. "No, he's not. What happened, Constance? Is D'artagnan alright?"

"He should be here! He left my place half an hour ago! He told me not to worry, that he would get here and find help! It's all my fault, I should have stood up to Jacques and helped him anyway, regardless of the consequences. I'm such a coward." Constance said, sounding desperate and broken. She tried to wipe away her tears, but they kept coming.

"You are no such thing." Porthos chastised her quickly. "You are the bravest and strongest woman I've met."

"Not today," Constance replied, looking at him with pain in her eyes. "You didn't see how I just let D'artagnan walk away in the state he was in! He might be still out there, looking for help! He was in such a bad way."

"Tell us everything." Athos' calm but sincere voice almost startled them. They had not noticed him walk over to see what was going on. Treville was on his heels.

Constance began to explain the details all in an anxious rush. "D'artagnan came to visit, but my husband sent him away, never to return. He cannot stand him. Then, a short time after that, to my surprise, D'artagnan returned. He had been robbed and was terribly hurt - bleeding very badly - but my husband didn't care and sent him away from our doorstep. He hates the idea of him being anywhere near me so much, that he refused to let me help him! He is so selfish, and blind to the fact, and so D'artagnan was forced to find help elsewhere. He said he would send me word when he made it safely here to the garrison, but he's not–" She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her mouth with her hand, choking on a sob.

"Alright, you three go and see if you can find D'artagnan," Treville immediately ordered the Musketeers standing beside him, taking charge of the situation. "Constance, I'll make sure you stay safe in here for now. You do not have to leave until you feel safe to." He gave her a pointed look of concern, eying her bruised jaw.

"Come on," Athos spoke to Aramis and Porthos, who immediately followed him right after they each grabbed their weapons, hats, and gear.

Constance followed Treville to his quarters, and glanced back at the Musketeers.

"We will find him, Constance," Aramis said as if it were a promise, having caught her eye. "And here," he tossed her a small leather pouch. "There are herbs in there that can help with your injury. I'd do more, but–"

"No, I'll be fine." Constance shook her head vigorously. "Thank you Aramis. You just find him."

"We will," he promised as he turned to follow the others out of the garrison.

The daylight was fading very fast, but it was still light enough to see fairly decently for another hour at least. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had initially split up to cover more ground, but finally grouped back together after finding no sign of their fourth and youngest member. Concern and worry grew rapidly in their minds, and they feared what they might find as the time slowly went by.

After almost twenty minutes of searching, Aramis noticed an alley they had yet to walk through. It was small and out of the way, and he had originally suspected D'artagnan would not have gone anywhere near this area, but they had to check every place. He began to walk into the alley, leading the others behind him. It was then that he saw it, and it stopped him suddenly in his tracks. At the other end of the alleyway, sprawled on the ground with his head and shoulders up against the left wall, was a Musketeer, the pauldron on his shoulder quite visible. The man's face was turned away from him, but it could only be one person.

"D'artagnan!" he cried, breaking into a run. Porthos and Athos were right behind him, and he finally reached his young brother, dropping to his knees beside his prone form on the right side. Fear hit Aramis quickly as he took in the extremely pale and lax face, and the blood - oh, there was too much, it seemed! He reached out his fingers to feel if D'artagnan was breathing and then laid them against his neck to see if his veins showed signs of life. He let out a sigh of relief when he felt the slight exhale of air from D'artagnan's mouth and the twitching of the veins by his throat.

"He's alive," he said softly to the others.

"How? He looks like he has more blood outside of him then in him!" Porthos said in a tone of disbelief. He was crouched on the ground by D'artagnan's left leg, and he let his hand drop down to grip it gently. "I wonder how long he's laid here like this."

"He doesn't have to be any longer," Athos muttered, having gotten on a knee next to D'artagnan's left side. He had immediately placed a gloved hand over the wound and was applying pressure. "Aramis, let's get him out of this position. It looks to be hurting him even more."

Aramis nodded. "We'll pull him back a little to let him lie down better. Then I can assess his wound. Porthos?"

Porthos nodded, ready to help pull. "You got it."

The three were just ready to pull D'artagnan away from the wall, when he suddenly stirred, his brows furrowing and his eyes squeezing together in a pained wince. The Musketeers stopped cold and watched, partially not wanting him to awaken due to the pain they knew he would be in, but also partly longing to see him open his eyes, which would remind them he was indeed still alive.

D'artagnan's eyes opened slightly, and he looked a little dazed. He then seemed to realize he was not alone and tried to sit up all the way, his eyes widening very quickly and his breathing speeding up.

"Shh, shh, it's us, D'artagnan!" Aramis was swift to help calm him, placing both hands on his shoulders to prevent him from jostling about too much.

D'artagnan let out a hiss of pain and then looked at each one of them. "You…you found me. What…happened?" he asked, hoarsely.

"We were hoping you could remember and tell us," Athos said. He had not moved his hand from the still leaking wound, and D'artagnan now tried to cover it with his own hand as well.

"Ugh, my side," he groaned, closing his eyes tightly shut for a few moments. "Athos, please, you're hurting me."

"Sorry, D'artagnan. I'm trying to keep you from bleeding out any more than you have."

"I know," D'artagnan whispered, swallowing hard and grimacing. "I just…" He trailed off.

"You just what?" Porthos asked softly.

"I just can't believe how stupid I was."

"What'd ya mean?" Porthos asked while Aramis undid D'artagnan's doublet and pulled open his shirt a little, preparing to look at the wound as soon as he could.

D'artagnan answered Porthos. "There were two thieves instead of one. I let myself be taken by surprise. I also thought I could make it back on my own. But I…I couldn't. And–" Suddenly, D'artagnan's eyes shot open and he grabbed Athos' doublet. "Constance! I promised her I would not let her worry about me. She was being abused by her husband again, and I thought I could give her a way out, to get out of the house and take a walk. But he demanded I leave. Then I dumbly tried to go back for help from them when I was robbed, but then…" D'artagnan stopped, a slight gasp escaping him as Athos shifted his hand slightly.

"But Monsieur Bonacieux pushed you away again without pity," Porthos growled again, his anger evident.

"He strangely offered to send someone to accompany me, but I turned the offer down. I think I wasn't in my right mind then. It was a stupid thing to do. I got a little disoriented…I think it was the lightheadedness."

"That would do it," Aramis said. "What were you stabbed with? A dagger?"

D'artagnan nodded. "Just under my ribs. It kinda hurts to breathe."

"Alright," Aramis said with a nod. "Just hang on. Athos, let me take a look."

Athos took away his hand and Aramis lifted D'artagnan's doublet and shirt, grimacing when he saw the wound.

D'artagnan saw his face and sighed. "I know. I figured it was bad. I'm having a hard time getting the feeling back in my arms and legs. I keep telling myself it's because I've been lying here in a bad position all this time, but–"

"I'm sorry," Porthos said suddenly. "We were going to move you and then you woke up."

"Here, do you want to lie down or sit up?" Athos asked him.

"Sit up, please," D'artagnan replied. "I don't want to die lying down."

"You're not gonna die, D'artagnan. Not if we can help it," Porthos told him.

D'artagnan glanced up at Aramis and tried to catch his gaze. "Aramis?" he asked, his question unspoken.

Aramis returned his gaze at last. "It's deep, but not fatal. Not that I can see, of course. The bleeding's nearly stopped, at least. It will definitely need stitches."

"Very encouraging, Aramis," Athos said, dryly, looking up at him as he resumed his pressure on D'artagnan's wound.

"I'm no physician, I just know a little field medicine," Aramis protested.

"Then let's get him to Lemay," Porthos said with urgency in his voice.

"Come on, let's sit him up first," Aramis said, and they all carefully lifted D'artagnan so that he was leaning more comfortably against the wall. D'artagnan curled in on himself a little and just nearly let out a whimper of pain. "I'm sorry, D'artagnan," Aramis said, gently.

"Not your fault," D'artagnan replied, when he had caught his breath again.

"It's getting harder to see out here," Athos said. "We should try to get him back to the garrison."

"I'm sorry to make this hard on you," D'artagnan said quietly. "But I don't know if I can get up, let alone walk. I've never felt this helpless."

"But that's when friends pick you up and help you out," Porthos said, patting his leg. "Remember? All for one?"

"Aye, I remember," D'artagnan replied, his head lolling back against the wall as though it were too heavy to hold up. "But that does not mean you're carrying me."

"Sorry, my friend, but you have no say in the matter this time," Porthos said with a slight chuckle.

D'artagnan let out a mock groan of irritation, but let Porthos lift him up, bridal style, without protest. In reality, he was trying to keep from passing out again.

"Come on, we're not too far from the garrison, albeit a little out of the way. You were mighty confused with your direction," Porthos told his wounded brother, who lifted his head up the best he could to peer at their surroundings.

"Ah, yes. I suppose…I was," D'artagnan replied. He gave a cough and a grimace. "Just try not to run."

"Will do my best," Porthos replied.

The Musketeers and their injured companion made their way back toward the garrison, as quickly as they could without making Porthos jostle D'artagnan too much. The youngest Musketeer kept coughing a few more times, with each one sounding more deep and painful than the last, causing Aramis and Athos to glance at each other with obvious concern written on their faces. If that dagger had hit his lung…Aramis shook his head, trying to ignore the terrible thought. He was not too sure how they could handle that. He whispered a prayer for his brother in all but blood as they hurried along.

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Note: This chapter is a little shorter, but there's more.

Chapter Text

Author's Note: Don't own anything...and also, I am no medical expert, so bear with me if it doesn't seem medically accurate. I was sort of imitating that scene you might end up remembering from episode 7.

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Chapter Three

Constance leapt up from the seat she had been in and rushed out to the balcony at the sound of the commotion outside. Her hopes were fulfilled when she saw the Musketeers enter the garrison, but her heart immediately fell in the next moment when she saw D'artagnan in Porthos' arms. She watched him give a terrible sounding cough and then rushed down the steps toward him.

"Someone send for Lemay!" Treville shouted, right at Constance's heels.

Constance stopped short when she saw the state D'artagnan was in, and her face paled. "No…no, no, no…" she tried to speak more, but nothing else came out.

"He'll be alright, Constance," Athos told her, coming over and trying to distract her from the terrible sight as Porthos carried D'artagnan to the infirmary.

Constance hurried in after them, but stayed in the shadows, watching in fear at what she felt was her doing. She could have helped him. But oh, she was too cowardly to stand up to her own husband. Bitter tears found their way down her face, and her heart ached terribly. She could never forgive herself if D'artagnan died.

Porthos gently laid D'artagnan down onto one of the beds and held him by the shoulders as he gave another round of a hacking cough. When he had finally settled, D'artagnan was blinking back tears. It obviously hurt, as he began rubbing at his chest whilst clutching his side.

"You alright, mate?" Porthos asked him softly as he sat on the edge of the bed, his face looking pitifully at his friend.

"No, not really," D'artagnan admitted, which caused Porthos to wince at the admittance. It took a lot for D'artagnan to say he felt terrible.

Athos stood at the foot of the bed and looked at him. "Lemay is coming. He should be able to help change that."

"But for now, I'll see what I can do in the meantime," Aramis said, leaning over to look at the wound after Porthos pulled off D'artagnan's doublet, leaving his stained and open shirt. "I can at least clean the wound and even stitch it if he doesn't get here by then."

"Alright. I trust your stitching over anyone else's, Aramis," D'artagnan said, giving a small grin. The grin turned into a grimace and he once again began to cough. This time, however, he had a hard time stopping. He hunched over, his hand pressed to his mouth as he attempted to catch a breath through the insistent coughing. Aramis was immediately catching his other flailing hand and gripping it whilst he rubbed D'artagnan's back. Porthos was holding onto D'artagnan's left shoulder and leg tightly, trying to help ground him. Athos started to walk over on Aramis' side to give assistance as well. It was hard for them to see their youngest suffering so and to not be able to do much about it.

Finally, at last, D'artagnan gave one last almighty cough and stopped. He pulled his hand away and leaned back. Aramis kept a hand at the back of his neck to support him, and he glanced down at the younger man's hand. His heart nearly stood still when he saw the crimson staining his palm. A little bit of red also seeped from the corner of his mouth.

"Oh no," Porthos muttered, having noticed it too.

"We need Lemay now," Athos said, his voice betraying his worry and fear.

Aramis stood quickly. "No, we don't have time. I have to clean and stitch this quickly, right now, and then I will see what I can do to stop the bleeding from inside."

"Aramis," Porthos said, raising his gaze to look at his friend. "When a man starts to cough up blood…" He trailed off.

"Don't, Porthos," Aramis said, giving him a stern look. "Just don't. There's always a chance."

"D'artagnan's not dying. Not today," Athos stated, matter-of-factly.

"Athos," Aramis turned. "Help Porthos support him. I need to get supplies."

"Be quick," Porthos said.

Aramis hurried off while Athos and Porthos helped D'artagnan stay in a comfortable position between them. He had been keeping his eyes closed since he had stopped coughing, and Athos was a little worried he had fallen asleep. "D'artagnan?" he asked quietly.

D'artagnan moved his head towards him and opened his eyes slightly. "Hm," was all he could get out in reply.

"It's alright, you don't need to talk. Just try to stay awake until Aramis is through with everything," Athos kept his hand at the back of D'artagnan's head, keeping it lifted up slightly, as laying back completely was seeming to be difficult for him. He reached out and wiped away the bit of blood that had dripped down D'artagnan's chin. He had never been so afraid for one of his brothers.

Aramis was soon back, and he hurried over to begin cleaning the wound. D'artagnan hardly stirred until the spirits were poured over it, and he suddenly reacted with a loud cry, arching back and nearly causing Porthos and Athos to lose the feeling in their hands as he gripped them tightly. After a few moments, he actually cracked an eye open and thought he needed to apologize. "Sorry."

"Don't you dare apologize," Porthos said quickly. "Didn't hurt us a bit. You're the one injured."

"I'm just gonna stitch it up now," Aramis said. "It shouldn't take much time. The cut is not that long. Just…too deep." He threaded a needle and prepared to start.

"Tell…tell Cons…" D'artagnan slurred his quiet words, overcome by pain and exhaustion.

"Tell Constance what?" Porthos asked, leaning closer to hear.

"Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I…" D'artagnan stopped and winced as Aramis started the first stitch.

"Tell her yourself. She's right over there by the door," Athos said gently.

"She is?" D'artagnan looked confused. "How did she get away?"

"Get away? From who? Her husband?" Aramis asked.

D'artagnan nodded. "He was abusing her," he mumbled.

Athos turned to see Constance was still standing far back, gazing at them all with unshed tears. He beckoned with his head for her to come over. She hesitated, and then made her way closer, biting her lip. D'artagnan opened his eyes and turned to look at her.

"Cons…Constance," he said hoarsely.

"D'artagnan. I just ran off. He's probably proper mad at me. I'll go home when I feel like he's maybe cooled off a little."

"Don't…don't go back," D'artagnan whispered. "He'll only hurt you again."

"I have no choice," Constance said quietly, looking down. She sniffed and looked back at him. "Oh, D'artagnan. I'm so, so sorry! I should have helped you and ignored him! If only I'd known how bad off you really were–"

"Stop, Constance. I don't want to hear you blame yourself again, please," D'artagnan said, his voice a little stronger as he spoke the words with passion, lifting his head up higher. "I am the one who should say sorry. I failed to be honest with how bad it was. At least, I did think I could handle it. But I was wrong. I didn't let you try."

Constance sighed. "Still," she said.

"Still," D'artagnan echoed, and then added. "I do love you. Just hold on to that…when it…when it gets hard." He seemed to realize just then that he could not keep his head up on his own any longer, and he let it fall back. Athos caught it carefully.

"Lie still," Aramis reprimanded softly. He was finishing the last two stitches.

D'artagnan's breath hitched, and he looked as though he were trying to not cough again.

"Where in the world is Lemay?" Porthos grumbled. "Not that you're doing a bad job, Aramis."

"Thank you, Porthos," Aramis replied. He tied off the last of the thread and then rolled out the bandages he had brought.

As if on cue, the door to the infirmary opened, and in rushed Lemay, with Treville close behind.

"Forgive me," Lemay said, breathless, as he hurried to stand beside Aramis. "I was aiding the king when I was called for. I did not mean to take so long."

"It's alright, I have already cleaned and stitched his wound," Aramis said, gesturing to D'artagnan.

Lemay nodded. "I see. Good work. It looks alright; the bleeding has been stopped. Any signs of infection or fever?" he asked Aramis, as he looked carefully at the wound himself. He assisted Aramis in placing and wrapping the bandages on the wound and around D'artagnan's torso, with the aid of Athos and Porthos lifting him up a little.

"No, thankfully," Aramis replied. "But there is a graver concern we have. D'artagnan's been coughing up blood. We fear something is wrong with his lung, perhaps, with where the dagger wound is."

Lemay's face took on a more serious look as he looked at D'artagnan's pale pallor and bloodied hand while the young man was settled back into his earlier position. "How much blood did he expel?"

"A small amount," Aramis said, wiping some sweat off his brow.

"Alright," Lemay said with a nod. "Then we–"

He was cut off very abruptly by D'artagnan losing his battle with the cough he had been holding back all this time. He bent forward so far that his head almost touched his right knee that he raised up, curling into himself as he struggled between the harsh and painful coughing. His hair almost obscured his face from view, but they could still see the silent tears. Hands were all over him, trying to steady him, but all anyone could do was wait it out, watching in agony as he suffered. Constance was so overwhelmed with terror at the sight of D'artagnan going through such torture, that she turned and fled the room in tears. Treville, who had been silently watching the whole ordeal, rushed after her.

D'artagnan, at last, ceased his coughing, but he slumped limply forward, as if his strings were cut. Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and Lemay all scrambled to catch and lean the now unconscious Musketeer on his back. Although D'artagnan's head had lolled onto the pillow, Athos kept a hand behind it as if he were afraid to let go. Blood had leaked out of D'artagnan's mouth in a vein-like pattern down his chin and onto his neck.

Aramis jumped forward and reached out a hand to place under D'artagnan's jaw to check if their brother was still with them. He let out a breath of relief and he lowered his head for a moment. Lemay had picked up D'artagnan's wrist to check for signs of life, and looked equally relieved.

"His left lung was undoubtedly pierced and is filling up with blood," Lemay began.

"Tell us something we don't know," Athos said.

Porthos spoke before the physician could continue. "That is the problem. What's the solution?"

"I…" Lemay trailed off, and then met the gazes of the men surrounding the wounded Musketeer. "I have a thought…that should work. In theory," he said, sounding a little uncertain.

"In theory?" Aramis asked, not seeming very happy with the low confidence that Lemay was portraying.

"I'll need to make a second piercing into his lung to drain the blood from it. At least, I am very certain it will do the job. After that…I'm afraid there's not much more I can do for him. I'm sorry," Lemay said.

"We don't need an apology, as he will not be dying on our watch. So just do whatever you think will save him," Aramis told him. "What do you need?"

Lemay nodded. "Alright. I'll need a basin to catch the blood, and I have something to cut with," he grabbed a scalpel. "And I have this tube." He immediately began instructing Aramis where to hold the basin, and then had Athos and Porthos move D'artagnan to where he was closer to the edge of the bed. He also told them to hold the younger man down tightly.

After pulling away D'artagnan's shirt further to reach his left side, Lemay found where he seemed to be certain was the optimal place to make an incision. To no one's surprise, D'artagnan awoke with a gasp, which turned into a cry of intense pain. He fought against Athos and Porthos as they held him down, yanking his head backward and forward, repeatedly. Thankfully, only a pillow was behind his head, and he eventually began to merely moan, choking a little as he tried to breathe with a terribly raspy sound. A few stray tears slipped out of the corners of his closed eyes. Lemay soon inserted the tube, and the blood began to drain out almost straight away into the basin, causing D'artagnan's difficult breathing to finally even out to deep, ragged breaths. Porthos wiped the sweat from D'artagnan's brow, and he, along with the three others in the room, let out a small relieved sigh.

"Well done, Lemay," Aramis praised the physician.

"I only pray it does not worsen or backfire," Lemay said.

"We will make sure that it doesn't," Athos stated, his tone dead set serious.

Lemay nodded. "Then I dare say that he will most certainly make a full recovery, so long as there is no fever or infection that causes any problems."

"Thank you, Lemay," Porthos said. "We are indebted to you."

Lemay left not long after this, after waiting for the tube to fully drain and then removing it and bandaging up the second small wound. Aramis finally took a moment to track down Constance and Treville, knowing they should be informed of D'artagnan's inevitable recovery. He found them near the stables, where Treville stood, consoling a weeping Constance. Aramis slowly approached, catching Treville's questioning eyes.

"He's going to make it," Aramis said. He was sure he saw Treville's shoulders sag in relief, and he gave Aramis a nod. Aramis came a little closer, and cleared his throat. "Constance?" he said softly.

Constance pulled away from Treville and looked at Aramis, who winced at the sight of her red rimmed eyes and still very bruised jaw, which stood out in stark contrast to her beautiful features.

Aramis made sure he had full eye contact with her before speaking again. "D'artagnan is going to be alright," he said.

Constance's eyes widened and she ran straight past Aramis toward the infirmary.

"She blames herself," Treville said.

Aramis sighed. "She is not to blame in any way."

"I believe the only one she might listen to is D'artagnan," Treville replied.

Constance had run into the room where D'artagnan lay, still unconscious, and she observed how Athos finished placing a clean shirt on him with Porthos' aid. Porthos then finished cleaning off the blood from D'artagnan's mouth and neck. Both men looked up when she took a few steps closer.

"Constance," Porthos said first. "He's gonna be alright."

Constance nodded. She almost did not trust herself to get any closer. She gazed at D'artagnan's face. He was not awake, but his brows were furrowed as if he were consciously confused, worried, or in pain. Constance took a deep breath and swallowed, hoping they were right–that he would live after all.

______________________________________________________

Note: Alright, a little more to this one.

Chapter Text

Author's Note: Sadly still not my characters. And this is the final chapter. I kinda wanted to keep going, but hey, gotta end somewhere.

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Chapter Four

D'artagnan awoke to the sound of Constance talking. It was a beautiful sound, and he lay quietly with his eyes closed and relished it, believing it to be part of a dream. After a moment he could start making out her words.

"...if there is anything I wish for, it is that I could have had a chance in life to find you before…before I…" Constance sighed, and there was a long pause before she spoke again. "Oh, I am so sorry, D'artagnan. I need to be stronger, more bold. You've taught me how to be so. I don't know what I'd do without you in this world."

"Me neither," D'artagnan whispered, his eyes slowly cracking open. "I couldn't imagine not knowing you."

Constance let out a small gasp and then jumped up, to D'artagnan's surprise. She then rushed away from the bed and to the door of the room, opening it and calling out.

"He's awake!"

She was back in an instant, and her hand caressed the right side of D'artagnan's face. He leaned into her hand and closed his eyes again. The sound of other individuals entering the room made him slowly open his eyes to slits again, the feeling of complete exhaustion making it hard to open them all the way. He could see Aramis come to his left and lean over him. Porthos bent down near the foot of the bed, and Athos came to sit beside Constance.

"Welcome back, D'artagnan," Aramis said, a smile on his face.

D'artagnan gave a hint of a smile. "How long was I out?" he asked, weakly.

"Since last night, when you were first brought in here," Treville said, having joined them as well.

D'artagnan nodded, remembering it all, to his surprise. He thought he would have been out for much longer, but at the same time, he was glad he was awake now.

"Here," Aramis grabbed a small bottle sitting on the table beside them. "Lemay left this to give you for the pain. Now that you're awake I can give you some."

D'artagnan nodded and let Aramis pour a small amount of the contents into his mouth while Constance lifted his head a little to assist him. After swallowing the bitter liquid with a grimace, his eyes found Constance's, and he furrowed his brows in confusion when he saw the unshed tears in her eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked her, reaching up with his weak right hand to caress the side of her face.

"I feel so guilty, D'artagnan," Constance said, her tears finally spilling over. "You're a good man. You didn't deserve this. I was too afraid for myself, that I almost let you die. I do not have enough words to give that can show you how truly sorry I am."

Her voice quivered at the end, shattering D'artagnan's heart. She was still unconvinced about her innocence, even after he had been so adamant about it before. Dropping his hand from her face, he pushed himself up and leaned over onto his right elbow so he was at Constance's eye level. He did it so swiftly that the others couldn't move fast enough to stop him. He grit his teeth together and winced, but ignored the sting in his side. He could feel Aramis place a hand on his back and Athos a hand on his left hip as if to catch him should he lose his strength.

"Constance," he said, his voice suddenly stronger and more confident than before. He gave her a serious look, reaching up to cup his left hand to her chin, and to wipe away the tear rolling down her face at that moment with his thumb. "Shut up and stop blaming yourself."

Porthos gave a quiet snort of amusement. Constance took a moment before the faintest smile crossed her lips and she looked down, avoiding D'artagnan's gaze.

D'artagnan ducked his head a little lower. "Hey, look at me," he said, and he waited until she did. "You did nothing wrong. I could never blame you for what happened. Ever. This was a stupid and horrible situation that neither one of us could have expected. And it is on me that I thought I was fine."

"Believe me, he doesn't understand the definition of fine," Aramis said.

"None of you do," Constance spoke then, her eyes flicking toward the others in obvious amusement. The other Musketeers, including Treville, smirked and looked at anything in the room that suddenly caught their eye besides her.

"The point is," D'artagnan continued, glad that Constance was looking less troubled. "This was not on you. So dismiss it from your mind. Promise me?"

Constance sniffed and nodded. "I promise."

D'artagnan gave a small smile in return. "Good. I didn't mean to scare you so, and therefore, I'm sorry for that."

"You scared us all a little," Porthos said, quietly. "Didn't know if you'd make it."

"Didn't know either," D'artagnan admitted, almost in a whisper. He suddenly realized his body was through holding his weight up with his right arm and shoulder, and he shut his eyes with a grimace, practically falling over onto his back again. Aramis and Athos caught him as he did so and eased him gently into his earlier position. D'artagnan opened his eyes again and looked up at them.

"You are stronger than you may think," Athos told him from where he now stood with his hand on D'artagnan's chest, the hint of a smile settling on his mouth and in his eyes.

D'artagnan let a small smile grace his own face before closing his eyes and wincing slightly. An ache throbbed in his side for a long moment. He felt Aramis take his left hand, while Constance took his right. D'artagnan could feel sleep suddenly pulling at him and he opened his eyes. He tried to fight it, blinking sluggishly. He felt Aramis set his other hand on his forehead.

"Sleep, D'artagnan. It's alright," Aramis soothed.

And so D'artagnan let his eyelids close, relaxed, and let himself fall into oblivion.

It was four hours before D'artagnan woke again. And this time, he discovered he was alone. The sun shone through the windows, making patterns on the floor and the walls, and causing D'artagnan to long for the feel of it on his face. He could not stand lying there in bed for so long, and although his side still stung and a deep ache spread throughout the left half of his body, he was suddenly getting extremely anxious. Being cooped up alone was not something he favored at all.

He knew he would most likely get a harsh reprimand for it, but he pulled away the blanket and slowly eased himself up into a sitting position, holding his breath to stifle the groans he desperately wanted to make. After swinging his legs over the side, he straightened a little and let out his breath, sucking it back in quickly when a painful twinge from his side made him grip the bed beneath him. Soon, he mustered the strength to stand, although it took him a few moments. After placing his right hand gingerly over his left side, he shuffled his way towards the door, wincing with every step. He braced himself before opening the door and stepping outside into the warm sun.

He could see several fellow Musketeers sparring and some in conversation as they waited for their turn to train and practice. He tried to make out his closest friends and finally spotted Aramis helping a young recruit fire his rifle properly at a target. Just past them, he noticed Athos stop a sword fight that was getting out of hand, and Porthos was speaking with Treville near the outdoor steps to the upstairs quarters. D'artagnan was glad to see them, grateful that they appeared to be in good spirits. He wondered if it was partially due to the fact that he had survived.

One person he wished he could see right now somewhere in the garrison was Constance. He assumed that she had probably returned home, much to his disappointment. The thought of how her husband might have reacted to her coming to see him weighed heavily on his mind. He wished he could do something. Anything. Just to make her life a little less painful.

The thought of pain reminded him of his own, and it seemed to attack him suddenly, making him clutch the door frame and lean his left shoulder against it. Lifting his head, which felt unsettlingly faint, he looked out at the Musketeers several feet away, completely oblivious to him. Until he heard a sudden yell that was laced with concern.

"D'artagnan!"

It was Aramis. D'artagnan caught the man's eyes as he bolted toward him from where he had been fixing the new recruit's shooting position. In moments, Aramis was pulling the wounded Musketeer away from the door frame and supporting D'artagnan's weight on his right. Nearly everyone had heard Aramis' shout, and Porthos and Athos came running, their faces a mixture of surprise and concern.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Porthos asked, while Athos rushed to D'artagnan's other side to help support him.

"You shouldn't be doing this, D'artagnan," Athos muttered. He gave him a serious look of reprimand, but D'artagnan did not let it bother him.

"I just had to get some air," D'artagnan said, quietly. "It was stifling in there." His legs nearly gave way then, prompting Aramis and Athos to hold him tighter so as to not let him fall.

"But you don't have the strength yet, mon ami," Aramis chided.

D'artagnan grit his teeth and closed his eyes tight from the burning sensation he still felt, before opening them again. "I wish it didn't take so long," he grumbled.

"That's why you have us to help you out until it's back," Porthos told him.

"Thanks," D'artagnan said, softly.

"Here, you can come sit out here by the table for a bit until you need to lie down again," Porthos offered.

D'artagnan nodded and was then assisted by Athos and Aramis over to a bench near the table, which acted as something for D'artagnan to lean back against while he faced outward towards the garrison yard. Athos and Aramis then sat on either side of him, to provide support should he need it. Treville made his way over and stood by Porthos, nodding to D'artagnan.

"It's good to see you looking better, D'artagnan," Treville said.

D'artagnan gave a nod back. "Thank you, captain."

A commotion at the entrance to the garrison made all five Musketeers look up quickly in interest. The moment D'artagnan saw who was striding through the gate, his heart went cold.

Monsieur Bonacieux.

D'artagnan warily watched as the man stiffly walked directly toward him. Although he was certain the man would never dare to physically lay a hand on him, it did not quell the bit of anxiousness that settled in his chest at the sight of him growing nearer.

Immediately, Athos and Aramis stood, taking a step so that they were partially standing in front of D'artagnan. Porthos and Treville moved closer as well, and D'artagnan pretended not to notice how all four men had placed their hands on their weapons; Athos and Porthos on the hilts of their swords and Aramis and Treville on the handles of their pistols. Honestly, he did not need such extreme protection from a man as harmless as Bonacieux, but still. Intimidation didn't hurt.

"What do you want?" Athos asked bluntly and informally.

Monsieur Bonacieux seemed to have forgotten his tongue for a moment, but then his eyes found D'artagnan's once more and he managed to get his jaw working. Taking a hard swallow, he then cleared his throat. D'artagnan was wondering if what the man was trying to say was extremely difficult for him. Surely he was not about to–

"D'artagnan," Bonacieux said, his chin high and his voice wavering ever so slightly. "I wish to extend to you an…apology."

Wow, D'artagnan thought. That must have been a pain to say. Did Constance put him up to this?

"D'artagnan," Porthos spoke up. "You are not obligated to accept his apology. Don't think it's very sincere."

"I was unaware of how dire your need was, and if I had, I would have done more," Monsieur Bonacieux declared. "I was…unhappy with my wife's actions and it led me to make a…misjudgment." He seemed to have choked on something as he spoke the last word.

D'artagnan stared at him for a long moment and then sighed. "I forgive your misjudgment. However, I have a request to make, and I am going to say it calmly the first time."

Monsieur Bonacieux looked at him as if he was in great anticipation of what he had to say.

D'artagnan continued his death stare. "Raise a hand to Constance again, and you will have to answer to me."

Monsieur Bonacieux seemed to have been utterly shocked at the statement. "But," he sputtered. "She is my wife. You have no right to–"

"He won't be the only one you'll have to answer to," Athos suddenly interrupted, his tone sounding dangerous.

"No woman deserves to be treated in such a manner," Aramis added.

"You can't make me promise anything. This is a violation of my personal matters. What happens in my home is of no concern of yours," Bonacieux argued.

"He doesn't seem to get it, does he?" Aramis asked his fellow compatriots.

"No, it doesn't," Porthos replied. Turning to look at the offending man, he glared at him. "I'll be happy to show you how much of a concern of ours it really is."

And in response to that, Monsieur Bonacieux's eyes widened ever so slightly. He then sniffed in irritation, turned, and speed walked out of the garrison. Porthos made a step forward, but D'artagnan's voice stopped him.

"No, Porthos. Don't kill him. Please, that won't help anything."

"I wasn't going kill him," Porthos replied. "Just let him know how serious we are."

"I think he might understand a little better already," Aramis said, sitting down again. "At least I hope so."

It was about five minutes later that D'artagnan happened to glance up and see Constance slipping into the garrison. His heart swelled with happiness at the sight of her, and he was pleased to see that the bruise on her jaw was looking less prominent. She made a beeline over to him and Aramis stood quickly to let her take a seat beside D'artagnan.

"It's good to see you up and about, D'artagnan!" she exclaimed. "But isn't it too soon? You shouldn't strain yourself."

"Try telling him that again a few more times," Athos said from his spot on the bench next to D'artagnan's right side. He had just taken a sip from his pewter mug, and D'artagnan nudged his arm in annoyance with his elbow, almost sloshing the contents over the rim.

Constance gave the smallest chuckle and shook her head. "Oh, D'artagnan. Why do you torture yourself so?"

D'artagnan didn't reply, and he just sighed.

Aramis nodded to Constance. "I see you're looking better yourself, Madame Bonacieux."

"Thank you, Aramis," Constance said, and then grimaced. "But please. I prefer Constance."

"Of course. Constance," Aramis replied quickly.

"If he ever touches you in such a manner again, you tell me," D'artagnan told Constance in a serious tone. "Listen, I know it can be hard, but it doesn't hurt to ask for a little help."

Constance nodded. "Thank you," she said, softly. She stayed sitting there for a few more moments before she spoke again. "Well. I wish I could stay…but I need to be getting the evening meal together. I will come and visit again tomorrow."

"Promise?" D'artagnan asked.

"Promise," Constance replied, giving D'artagnan a peck on the cheek. She stood and hurried out of the garrison, her skirts fluttering about.

D'artagnan watched her until she disappeared and then sighed.

"She's a good woman," Treville said, breaking the silence. He cleared his throat and then turned to head up the outdoor stairs. "Well, gentlemen, I must attend to some pressing matters." He gave Athos a look and nodded to D'artagnan. "Make sure he gets some more proper rest."

Athos tipped his hat in reply. "Yes, captain."

D'artagnan did not like the thought of having to be put to bed again, especially when he had been resting for quite some time already. It was only a matter of a few more minutes before he had a sudden change of mind. A wave of exhaustion washed over him from nowhere, and he realized that supporting himself upright on his own was feeling like he was trying to lift a heavy weight. He blinked tiredly as he tried to shake the lightheadedness away, but to no avail. Finally he began to feel a little too faint. His body suddenly had a mind of its own. He lost all control and tilted to the side, practically falling against Athos. The man caught him, quickly discarding his nearly empty mug on the table behind them.

"D'artagnan!" he exclaimed.

Aramis, in a flash, was down on his knees in front of D'artagnan. He took the young man's face in his hands and peered at him. "D'artagnan? Talk to me, mon ami."

"Just…tired," D'artagnan slurred, wincing as his side throbbed from his sudden movement.

"Alright, hang on," Aramis said, standing and assisting Athos in lifting D'artagnan to his unsteady feet. Both draped one of his arms over their shoulders and they began to attempt moving forward.

"I…can't," D'artagnan gasped out as he tried to take a step and his knee buckled. He gave a muffled cry in frustration.

"It's alright, D'artagnan. Aramis?" Athos looked at his companion, who nodded. The two locked arms with each other and lifted D'artagnan, carrying him towards his own room. Apparently, they seemed to think he didn't need to spend any more time in the infirmary, to his relief.

Porthos hurried ahead of them and held open the door. After entering and gently depositing D'artagnan upright on the bed, Aramis reached over to pull away his shirt from his wounded side.

"Just checking," he explained. "Good. It seems to be still intact. Don't want you to be accidentally pulling any stitches now."

"Exactly why you should be limiting your trips out of bed." Athos pointed out. He and Porthos walked over to the table in the room to take off their hats, weapons and gear.

After being given a blanket by Aramis, D'artagnan slowly began to feel an overwhelming rush of emotion as his thoughts went back to Constance. Why her? he thought. She doesn't deserve this torment any longer.

"Are you alright? Are you in pain?" Aramis asked suddenly. "I can give you more of what Lemay left."

D'artagnan looked up quickly, and only then did he realize the moisture that he now felt in his eyes.

"N-no," he stammered. "I'm alright."

But that wasn't true. The pain of watching someone he loved, someone he could not help, ate at him. I could do so much more for her…if only I knew how. It's not fair, he cried internally.

"What's not fair?" Porthos cut into his thoughts.

"What?" D'artagnan asked.

"You whispered, "It's not fair"," Porthos replied.

"Oh. Constance. Her fate in life…it's not fair. She doesn't deserve it." He reached up with his right hand and pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes, trying to suppress the tears he wished he could hide from view. He sighed heavily, the sound shuddered and broken as his breath hitched slightly. He felt a hand on his shoulder, one on his knee, and then another on his forearm. Dropping his hand and blinking the room back into focus, D'artagnan glanced at Aramis, Porthos, and Athos, respectively.

"You're right, it isn't fair," Aramis agreed, squeezing his right shoulder. "But we can at least help where we can. In the end, you are helping to make a difference in her life, no matter how little it may seem."

D'artagnan nodded in understanding and let out his breath in a small huff. Something caught in his throat and made him cough a little. Immediately, the others looked at him with grave concern etched onto their faces. D'artagnan waved a hand.

"I'm al…right," he said, between another slight cough. "I just haven't had anything to drink for a while."

Athos immediately stood, fetched a cup nearby, and poured water in from a jug beside it. He then resumed his seat on the edge of the left side of the bed and held out the cup. D'artagnan lifted out a hand to take it, but his arm was too weak, and it trembled when he was mere inches from his fingertips. Seeing this, Athos batted away his hand and held the cup to his mouth. Aramis supported him a little on his opposite side on the edge of the bed. After swallowing several sips of the water, D'artagnan's need for water was satisfied. He then glanced at the three men who were like brothers, seated around him.

Aramis had gotten rid of his hat and gear at this point as well, the items sitting on the table with the others' things. D'artagnan furrowed his brows at the sight of the blanket on the floor near the bed, the one on the floor by the door, and the one on the chair nearby. Realization dawned on him.

"Are you…you all don't have to stay–"

"Ah," Porthos put up a hand from where he sat by D'artagnan's right foot. "We won't be hearing any protests. All for one and one for all. You don't have the strength to do much yet, so…we're stickin' close by to give just a little help."

A beat passed, and D'artagnan leaned his head back against the wall. "Thank you," he said, sincerely. "For everything."

"All for one," Athos repeated.

D'artagnan smirked and gave a nod. "Yeah. I know."

As he lay in bed later on that night, after waking up for a few moments, D'artagnan listened to the sounds of his companions in their slumber. He took a moment to reflect on all that had transpired and he sighed. He could not dwell on what had already happened without frustration or pain threatening to take over his mind. But what he could do was allow himself to look forward to what tomorrow might hold, good or bad alike.

And so, D'artagnan settled and let himself drift off, knowing he did not deserve such loyal friends. No, brothers, who continued offering a whole lot more help than he could even ask for.

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Note: This one was definitely longer. Feedback would mean the world, so feel free to leave some! And don't worry, I am cool with criticism.