NOTES:

My first multi-chapter story! It's mostly written, (I think, it could end up longer than I expect) so I'll try and get all the pieces up in some sort of schedule. Every Monday, perhaps?

Inspired by this prompt on the Musketeers Kink Meme (any excuse for hurting Athos) -

'I read a brilliant fic on AO3 where Porthos and Aramis got angry with Athos for pretending to be hungover when he was in fact injured, so as not to worry them.

I'd like to see this idea inverted: Athos genuinely is injured or sick but when his friends see his dulled awareness and sluggishness they assume he's hungover and say something like 'God sake, Athos, again?!'

Athos is so ashamed that his previous habits have caused them to jump to that conclusion that he keeps silent and doesn't tell them what's really the matter. Before long, he collapses and there is oodles of guilt, hurt and comfort all round!'

. ?thread=1521341#cmt1521341

I never know what warnings I need to put up. Do I need more or a higher rating?

Treville strode into the small but bustling tavern. Looking round he could spot the group of new recruits huddled round a few of the tables, outnumbering the regulars, but not his four most trusted men. He had taken a group of 15 new recruits to a small village a few days riding out from Paris to put them through their paces. His inseparables were on a few separate errands for the king and had passed through together a few days before to set up the training and to get some rooms before splitting up to do their duties and were due back today to meet here to help with the training. He himself had just got back from checking the preparations for the next day. He wandered over to the group and was met with tired but jubilant faces.

"Sir, sit here! Have a drink to celebrate!"

He was handed a beaker of wine by one of the men and held it aloft as someone toasted

"to all those who passed the riding test" followed by a cheer. Today had been the test of horse handling skills and all had passed. Tomorrow was the training and testing of their shooting skills, with Aramis' help, if he had arrived. The day after was fencing with Athos and then followed by hand to hand with Porthos. D'Artagnan was not yet the expert in anything yet so he would be helping with all of the training.

Speaking of his best men, where were they? He asked the triumphant gathering and was confused to hear the answer.

"Athos passed through here an hour ago, looking like he'd had a few drinks, sir." The man speaking sounded like he had had a few drinks himself. "He was so deep in the bottle that he could barely walk. We haven't seen the others."

Concern gathered at the base of his stomach at the words and clenched tightly. Athos may have a few demons, but he never let them affect his abilities to serve the regiment. And they had agreed to meet in the tavern's common room, not upstairs in the private rooms. Even if he needed a wash and change he should be back downstairs again by now.

He managed to excuse himself from the recruits and started to climb the stairs. He was halfway up before he could see down the corridor of the floor above. There, a few feet away was the slumped shape of a man, lying face down, right shoulder propped up against the whitewashed wall. Treville took the last of the steps in a few leaps as he hurried to the man's side, eyes scanning the body and immediately identifying the pauldron as Athos' even as his face was pressed into the floor. On the wall above the body there was a bloody handprint smeared downwards, as if made whilst the hand, or the body attached to the hand, was falling.

Treville carefully turned the man over; Athos didn't make a sound and was completely limp, face lax and skin paper white. Bending over, ear over his mouth and pressing his fingers to the other man's neck he was relieved to find he was still breathing and his heart was beating, although both were very faint. Now that he had been moved he could see the puddle of blood that had formed on the floor underneath a wound.

Moving Athos' leather coat aside he could see a once white bandage wrapped around his stomach, over his shirt, both now stained heavily with red. One hand too, presumably the one that had left the mark on the wall, was covered in blood.

Treville turned at the sound of a foot on the stairs, one hand making its way towards the sword on his hip, to protect the fallen man, which paused and relaxed when he saw who was making his way up.

Porthos paused on a step, paling when he saw the identity and state of the man lying beside his captain. He too covered the remaining distance in a few bounds and crouched beside his friend.

Treville laid a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Can you carry him to his room? I'll go and ask the landlord for some hot water and bandages and see if there is a surgeon in the village. Aramis and d'Artagnan aren't here yet, so I'll get them sent up when they do." Porthos nodded and started to carefully work his arms under Athos' shoulders and knees. Treville stood to get out of the way, but stayed to watch Porthos tenderly lift the unconscious man in the air. His head fell backwards over Porthos' arm, bloodied hand resting over his stomach and the other hand hung limply towards the floor. Treville was always amazed at how his arms could break one man's neck but cradle another one's body so carefully.

Turning, Treville made his way back downstairs. Entering the common room he looked towards the group still merrily drinking and chatting away. They were all idiots if they couldn't tell a drunk man from an injured one, especially one who had just finished a mission and therefore was most likely to be hurt then drunk. This was the only tavern for miles, how could anyone get drunk outside of here? He would have to deal with them in the morning, making sure his man would live was the more pressing issue.

The landlord was tending bar, so he wove his way between tables and chairs towards him.

An hour earlier...

Athos stumbled through the door, trying to discreetly clutch at the wound in his right side with one hand and keep himself upright with the other. His entrance was obviously not unnoticed as a jeer went up from the group of new recruits.

"Hey, there's Athos the drunkard! Deep in your cups already are you? If you can become a Musketeer in that state then we'll get a commission easily!"

Scanning the room he couldn't spot his friends or his captain. He seemed to be the first one back. As he shuffled around the scatted furniture, trying not to wince or make a noise as every step sent shooting pains up his side, the heckling continued.

"We're going to beat you come fencing day! Look at you, you drunkard, you can't even walk in a straight line!"

He tried to ignore the taunts, but the words stung deep. If the recruits, who had only joined the regiment a few weeks ago, knew about his vices then who else know? Would he bring shame and disappointment on the regiment? Ashamed, he made towards the stairs towards his room, where he could try to see to his wound and wait for the others to return.

The stairs felt like he was climbing a mountain and by the time he had got to the top, he was breathing heavily, his vision was swirling alarmingly and he felt like he was going to throw up, but he resisted that urge as he knew that being sick would only aggravate his already agonizing side, not to mention the mess that their host would have to clear up.

Half way down the corridor, only a few steps away from the top of the stairs, his vision greyed suddenly and he staggered, flinging out the hand that was covering his injury onto the nearest wall to try and keep himself upright.

His vision failed completely as Athos crumpled, completely unconscious by the time he met the ground.