Written for the prompt: "Athos claiming he's just hungover when really he's injured, OT3 or gen."

Which prompt was inspired by this entry on the "20 things Athos is not allowed to do" fill: "6. Claim he's hungover when he's actually injured. We know the difference; we're not fools."

And turned out way more serious than I thought it would.

Quick Note: "Mal aux cheveux" is an old(er) French phrase for "hangover," and was probably totally unnecessary to use in place of "hangover" within this fic, and is probably not even close to what they really would have said back then anyway, but using "hangover" itself, for some weird reason, just didn't seem to fit at all.

Needs Must (And Mustn't)

Aramis's neck and back creaked and popped as he straightened. He felt as though he were the one that had been skewered together with needles, rather than having been the one employing them to the purpose of sewing up a friend.

"Bad?" came a murmur from somewhere behind him.

He glanced at the doorway, curbing the desire to rub his hand over the stiffness of his own muscles as he looked. It wouldn't do to smear more blood everywhere when he was wearing enough of it as it was.

"Bad?" Athos mumbled again, digging his shoulder into the door's framework and folding his fingers over the filigree in the grip.

Aramis shook his head softly. "I told you it wasn't." His voice emerged in a dry rasp and he had to stop and clear his throat before he continued, realizing he must have been at it much longer than he thought. The shadows in the room had all changed and there was a tingling sensation in his spine for having been bent over his patient for so long. He coughed lightly. "The cuts were shallow enough, but long."

"Stitches finished? Porthos all right?"

Aramis grappled for a cloth to wipe at his hands while he cocked his head and frowned. There was a blur to Athos's words that hadn't been there when he'd started this, however many hours ago. "Athos?" he questioned, taking a step towards him and accidentally knocking Porthos's dagger off the table with his hip at the same time. It banged to the hard floor with a clatter.

Athos winced, swaying back and tucking his forehead into the wood supports.

Dropping the cloth in his hands hastily, Aramis closed the gap between them, reaching to clutch at Athos' elbows as his balance faltered in the dimming light. "Athos?"

"I'm fine. I'm fine," he slurred. "See to Porthos. He'll wake soon. He'll wake soon, right? See to Porthos."

"I've seen to Porthos," Aramis insisted, surveying Athos from head to toe. "Athos, tell me, what's wrong? Have you been hiding something?"

Athos made an effort to straighten in his grip, then tried to lean out of it. Then he made an attempt to smile casually which failed miserably. "Mal aux cheveux, Aramis. You know it. The drinking illness. I took the rest of the brandy from Porthos before you began and now that there is no more, I suffer for it. That is all. Nothing more. See to Porthos."

"I am not a fool," Aramis growled, dragging Athos further into the setting light within the room. "Five years I've known you. You think I don't know the difference? Where are you injured?"

"I'm not injured. See to Porthos, and yourself," Athos insisted, pawing lightly at his shoulder. "You've slept not at all, Aramis. Not at all. And Porthos. I can wait. Porthos needs-"

"Porthos needs his friends alive!"

There was a groan. On the table, Porthos rocked, then tilted up his head. "Ahhh!" he moaned.

A dark and stubborn beast crawled behind Aramis's eyes and set fire to his teeth. "Don't even think about moving," he snapped at Porthos, then pointedly steered Athos into a chair at the table's end. "Tell me now," he ordered. "Where?"

Athos blinked at him owlishly.

Aramis turned to scrub his hands in the nearby basin as he growled it again. "Where, Athos!"

"Under my ribs," Athos whispered finally. "Below... just, under my ribs."

Going to his knees before him, Aramis pulled the jacket open and then separated the folds of the shirt, gripping and tearing it with force when he saw the blood. "Mal aux cheveux, Athos? Mal aux cheveux, indeed!" It was nearly a snarl, his voiced seized by some desperation he could not name. "I am not a fool but you perhaps might be!"

"What's the yelling for?" mumbled Porthos.

Aramis picked up his kit, working with angry and tired fingers to thread the needle.

"What's the yelling for?" repeated Porthos.

"Aramis is angry," Athos stated with surprising distinction, perhaps finding the energy for precise pronunciation now that he was sitting down.

"What for?" Porthos pressed.

"I was taken by the drinking illness, and Aramis is upset about it. There's no more brandy. Now, go to sleep. Ahhh," he bit off a moan.

"Hold still," ordered Aramis.

Silence reigned while Aramis concentrated on cleaning and setting the first stitch. When he looked up, he found Porthos slumped up on his elbows, staring at Athos in wide-eyed wonder before bursting into a laughter born of blood-loss and sleeplessness.

"Porthos," Aramis warned, just as Athos jerked his head to stare back, forcing Aramis to yank up on the needle before it did more harm than good.

The pained laughter emerging through Porthos's lips died abruptly. "The drinking illness, Athos? You must think us both to be damn fools."

"I..."

Aramis grunted, then jerked the needle away again as Athos slumped forward, slipping from consciousness completely.

x

When Athos woke, he found himself folded into a pallet of cushioned cloth on the floor, situated just below the warm light spilling in from the window. Aramis was sprawled out next to him, sleeping uncovered on a thin blanket, looking worn and waxy.

"He still looks better than you," whispered a voice, reading his mind and descending from above, as though from a tower.

Athos looked up to see Porthos seated at the end of the table, one leg hanging gingerly off of it as he swallowed liquid from a water-skin. "And he's still mad at you, too."

Gritting his teeth, Athos refused to comment on that. Instead, he carefully ran his palm along the wrappings below his ribs, feeling for signs of new blood and testing his ability to breathe. Finding the work to be as neat and efficient as ever, he glanced back down at Aramis's exhausted features and sighed.

"Did you really think he'd appreciate your absurd story? That he'd be grateful for it somehow?"

"He had you to focus on, and my wound wasn't serious. I didn't want his attention torn."

Porthos chuckled but there was no actual mirth in it. "I'm sure that will make perfect sense to him when he wakes up. And I'm sure your wound wasn't serious... when we first got here."

Athos met his eyes. "You're angry with me too then?"

"After all these years, Athos, have we not taught each other that we must take care of each other? Do you think I was glad to awaken only to find you on the verge of collapse with some cockamamie story on your lips to get us to back off? You don't get to make those decisions for us, and you don't get to play us for fools."

"I didn't play... I've never seen either of you as fools. You know that," he insisted, a dull phantom weight shifting across his shoulders and a slowness in his brain that left him treacherously serious. He cleared his throat. "Only as two men I must not fail."

Porthos stayed silent a moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but hard. "Do you not realize by now that we feel the same?" he asked. "Athos," he continued gently. "Don't put us in a position where we must question whether or not we have."

Athos opened his mouth, and then just as quickly felt it shut, closing with the weight of Porthos's words.

"Don't," repeated Porthos. "You know by now we would take it no better than you."

Wearily and carefully, Athos nodded. He looked again at Aramis and the troubled rise and fall of his chest. Reaching cautiously, he ran his fingers through Aramis's hair, pressing gingerly against his scalp in a way he knew could make him settle, and then tipped himself back down on the blankets and closed his eyes.

End

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