Better Out Than In

Summary: One wrong punch and Aramis' life is made a living hell. But it's his own stubbornness that could be his downfall. Set before 1.08.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own imagination. No Copyright Infringement Intended. Just for fun.

A/N: Okay. This is my first attempt at a story in the Musketeer Fandom. This both makes me excited and terrifies me all at once as I have fallen completely in love with this show and its characters. I want to do it right. It's been a long time since I posted anything substantial and I believe I am still getting a feel for the era and all things pertaining to it. But you gotta start somewhere, right?

This story came to be simply because I am having my own tooth problems right now and I needed an outlet. And what better outlet than putting my darling Aramis in dire straits LOL I hope if you read that you enjoy and that you let me know your thoughts. Thank you.

Chapter 1. Stubbornness.

It was relentless. It was a jabbing pain that thrummed to an unheard beat. It was constant, excruciating and enough to bring a grown man to tears.

While tears had not surfaced yet, he was afraid that if the throbbing continued that his eyes might just betray him. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself that weakness. But right now he didn't care. Right now he just wanted it to end. In the far recesses of his mind he had considered ramming his head into the hard wall behind him. It couldn't hurt any more than he did right in that moment. In fact the darkness that would overcome his senses would be more than welcome, even for just a moment of blessed relief.

He just wanted it to stop. Please God, let it stop.

He glanced skyward, silently pleading for help. He wasn't above begging ... not now. Now he would beg for relief from the pain that had seemed to radiate from the source of his injury to encompass his whole being. It had gotten worse over the last few days... now it was unbearable.

A headache had seen fit to join the throng of stabbing pain. It was heavy and just as consistent. Not even his worst hangover had felt this bad ... and he'd been subjected to a few of them over the years. It was dreadful in comparison. In fact he was sure he'd rather take a shot from a musket or be ran through with his own sword. The thought had crossed his mind ...if only briefly.

He folded forward with a groan, resting his arm on the table in front of him; his forehead nestled against the soft folds of his white shirt. His other hand was pressed to his jaw in a futile attempt to keep the pain at bay. It hadn't worked yesterday, or the night before and it wasn't going to do any good now but it didn't stop him from trying.

The garrison was coming to life as Aramis sat at the courtyard table in absolute dejection. His fellow soldiers were all going about their morning, looking for food, for a sparring partner, for their next lot of orders from Captain Treville. It was a normal morning ... for everyone else at least. Aramis' world was far from normal as he sat cradling his head, trying not to whimper as shooting pain ran throughout his jaw.

The events of six days prior had brought him to this point, brought him to the point of seriously considering begging someone to put him out of his misery. He scrunched his eyes closed as another wave of agony hit. Had it only been six days? It felt like a lifetime had gone by, like he was wading through a hellish nightmare of pain and ... more pain. Dear god, he just wanted it to stop.

The slap on his back jarred him out of his thoughts and pulled a rather undignified sound from his throat. His head shot up, his headache bounding off the walls of his skull like a ricocheting musket ball.

Laughter followed his rude awakening and the person in question sat down beside him. "What a beautiful mornin'."

"Go 'way," Aramis responded while trying to not disturb his jaw anymore than necessary, dropping his forehead back down to his waiting arm.

"What's wrong with him?" d'Artagnan asked, his voice on the fence between amusement and concern.

The younger man had not been there, neither had Athos. It had been just Porthos with him – delivering a letter to a contact for the king. It had been a long ride and once their job had been done it was not unheard of to quench their thirst at the local tavern. It was also not unheard of for Porthos to find himself a card game. That was where it had all gone wrong.

Aramis raised his aching head to glare as Porthos chuckled beside him. Athos chose that moment to seat himself next to d'Artagnan. His face was impassive as he observed Aramis from across the table. "Your tooth is still bothering you." It was a statement, not a question.

"It's his own bloody fault," Porthos told them with a shake of his head as he accepted a bowl from Serge.

Aramis gaped at his friend, hand still pressed to his jaw. "Please do enlighten me as to how this is my fault? If you hadn't been caught cheating at cards..."

Porthos opened his mouth to argue and then paused, nodding his head in concession.

Just as Aramis thought, the big Musketeer had no argument. He had jumped to Porthos defence against the numerous men determine to teach his friend a lesson. It had been going so well. It had been fun. He'd felt alive. But that had all come to an end in one fleeting moment.

He remembered the moment when his life became a living hell all too well. One wrong punch by an overly angry and drunk tavern patron had sent Aramis reeling, his jaw exploding in white hot pain. He could swear he had heard his tooth crack on impact. He had certainly felt it.

"Still ... we coulda had it all fixed up the day we got back 'ere." Porthos reminded him, giving him a pointed look. "I know of a healer ..."

"No ..." Aramis shook his head and then immediately regretted the action as it sent pain bouncing all throughout his head and jaw once more. He closed his eyes and couldn't stop the groan from escaping his lips.

"No?" d'Artagnan asked. "What do you mean no?"

"It will not get any better," Athos stated, pouring a glass of whatever was on the table for them. Aramis hadn't bothered looking at what Serge had set out for them. He didn't want anything going near his mouth; that included everything from food to well meaning doctors who had no idea what they were doing.

"It will be fine," Aramis insisted. It would get better. He just needed to give it time.

"It will not," Athos countered.

"Athos, please ..."

"People die from infection," Porthos interjected, no longer laughing. His friend placed a hand on his shoulder, causing Aramis to wince. "It's been six 'hole days, Aramis."

"It's just a tooth. I'm not dying," Aramis argued despite how untruthful that statement had felt. He could have sworn death didn't hurt as much as his tooth did right now.

"An infection is an infection. It's still dangerous," Porthos countered, not one to give up.

"No," Aramis repeated. "I've seen what those so called teeth doctors do. I'm not having them anywhere near my mouth."

It was Athos' turn to sigh. "Aramis, you need to..."

"No ... I'm not going." He was not doing it. They would have to drag him kicking and screaming before he would see any kind of surgeon for his tooth. One aching tooth was bad enough. He didn't need them causing all kinds of havoc in his mouth. It was already painful enough.

"What are you scared of?" It was d'Artagnan who posed the question. The young Gascon held his steady gaze despite the glare he received. "Surely seeing the surgeon would be better than sitting here in pain? No offence, but you look awful."

Aramis looked at their young friend like he was insane. "Have you ever been to a surgeon for a problimatic tooth?"

"Not exactly," d'Artagnan conceded.

"Some have been known to use acid ... acid. No ... you could not convince me to go to one of those barbaric monsters. I have brandy. I'll ... deal with this in my own way." He had brandy in his room. He'd been holding a brandy soaked cloth to the affected area for the previous two nights. It dulled the pain ... a little. The way he had been sipping from that bottle at night would probably require restocking sooner rather than later.

The thought of going to the surgeon for his tooth was more unsettling than he wanted his friends to know. He'd seen their work. He'd watched his uncle receive treatment for an infected tooth when he'd been but a child. He could still hear the screams in his mind. He was a soldier, he'd seen battle. He'd seen death and pain more times than he could count but this ... the thought of a doctor, working on his tooth, it terrified him. In fact, thought made him feel sick to the stomach. He remembered his uncle's agony all too well as the surgeon worked on his mouth. He remembered the burns and the damage. No ... he wasn't going to subject himself to that, no matter how much dental work had improved since he was a child. There had to be another way. It was just a tooth afterall.

"Where is this healer?" Athos posed the question to Porthos, apparently done talking to Aramis on the subject.

"Well ... that could be a problem."

Athos raised an eyebrow in question to Porthos' hesitant reply.

"He's in the Court."

"Of miracles?" d'Artagnan asked surprise evident on his face.

Porthos nodded. "There's more in the court than jus' poverty an' scum. This man ... he's clever, real clever. He knows things. I've seen 'im help people ... for a price."

"You think he could help?"

"It's worth a try."

"Is there any way we can convince this man to come to us?" Athos asked. "I don't like the idea of traversing through the court unless absolutely necessary. I'm sure our last visit didn't leave the greatest of impressions."

Aramis watched as his friends discussed his dental health as though his opinion was not needed. It was ultimately his decision and he was not going to be convinced otherwise. He extracted himself from the table, biting back a whimper as pain struck his tooth once more. It was like getting kicked in the teeth by a horse. The more it throbbed the more his headache grew with intensity. It made his head feel heavy and this conversation was making him feel cornered and trapped. It was time he left... to possibly go and cry in a corner.

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked in concern, standing at the sudden movement.

"Where're you off to?"Porthos began to stand as well, pulling one long leg over the bench seat, ready to follow if necessary.

"Taking my leave," Aramis informed them. He turned to leave and then paused; pulling his hand away from his jaw as if to prove that all was well. "Look, as much as I appreciate your concern – and I do – it's not needed. It'll be fine."

Porthos shook his head in frustration. "You're being an idiot. You should 'ave it looked at."

Aramis opened his mouth to respond when a call from above interrupted the debate taking place. Looking up to the landing, Aramis could see Captain Treville, looking expectantly at them. He had orders for them. Aramis cringed at the mere thought of doing anything excessively active. His bad tooth throbbed as if taking that moment to remind him that it was in fact not going away.

Porthos huffed, moving the rest of his bulk over the bench seat and headed for the stairs. He was frustrated now, Aramis could tell. The large Musketeer was too annoyed to continue the debate now that they'd been called upon. Aramis watched as he took the stairs too at a time, without saying another word.

Athos moved next, taking one last gulp from his glass before leaving the table. He slapped Aramis on the back as he passed. "Come along then, duty calls." It took everything in him not to gasp in pain.

d'Artagnan followed close behind, pausing once to glance at Aramis. "You really should see someone. You shouldn't let things fester. You wouldn't allow us to."

He was right. When it came to his brothers' care Aramis took things very seriously. But this was different. This wasn't some life threatening injury. It was a toothache. He could handle it. Aramis moved to the table and picked up his jacket and pauldron. He carefully slipped his arms into the sleeves as he moved towards the stairs, joining d'Artagnan. "I promise you, d'Artagnan, if it gets unbearable I will reconsider my decision. I am, however, positive it will sort itself out. I will be fine."

d'Artagnan sighed but ultimately put the discussion to rest. "I hope you're right."

So do I, Aramis thought. Allowing d'Artagnan to move on in front of him, Aramis paused just outside of Treville's office, closing his eyes, steeling himself for what was inevitably going to be a very long day.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

One week later...

His awakening was sudden. Hands on his shoulder, shaking him. His reaction was instant, instinct rushing through him as his large hands found purchase on his attackers throat, squeezing. The hands that had been on his shoulder immediately wrapped themselves around his wrist as his assailant gasped, precious oxygen cut off.

Porthos twisted in his bed to get better leverage. He'd never had to defend his life in his own quarters before. Who in their right mind would attempt the life of a Musketeer in their own garrison? Other than d'Artagnan of course.

"Po'ths!" Desperate hands sought to pry his grip away. "St...op!"

The voice, although gargled against the iron glad strength of his hand, gave him reason to pause. Full wakefulness seeped into him as he finally got a good look at the man dangling from his hand. Shadows inhibited his view but he'd know that voice anywhere. He snapped his hand back as if he'd been burnt, his brow furrowing in confusion as to why he was being accosted by his best friend in the middle of the night.

"Aramis?"

The man in question was now on the floor. He coughed and gagged, his own hands massaging his now tender throat. He opened his mouth, seeming to try and answer the unspoken question that was hiding in Porthos' utterance of his name. But instead he coughed again, groaning as one hand left his throat to press against his cheek. It was a common sight over the last two weeks.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Aramis stated after a moment.

Porthos pulled back the covers and swung his legs over the side of his bed, all vestiges of sleep now gone. Dressed in only his under garments, Porthos left the warm confines of his bed and knelt before his friend. He reached out hesitantly with a hand. The same hand that had been strangling said friend only moments before. It was on the tip of tongue to chastise Aramis on his foolish idea to sneak up on a man in the middle of the night. But any disapproving words got stuck in the back of his throat as it was obvious something was very wrong.

Was it a nightmare? It wasn't uncommon for Aramis to suffer from terrible dreams. They all had their share of dark pasts and with the return and subsequent demise of Marsac during the Duke of Savoy's recent visit, Porthos knew his friend had been struggling. Aramis tended to keep his troubles and pain to himself, but Porthos knew him well, possibly better than anyone and he knew that while closure on the matter had been served, Aramis was still working through his demons. Porthos let him ... while keeping a watchful eye.

But this was different. Aramis had never done this before. His nightmares were his own and he would hate to show their effect publicly, even to his closest friends. So no ... this was no nightmare.

"Aramis, are you injured?" Porthos asked, his gaze coming to rest on the hand pressed hard to the marksman's jaw – his tooth. It was getting worse. He didn't need Aramis to answer. It was all making sense. "It's your tooth, isn't it?" Porthos sighed in frustration, turning to light the candle that sat on a barrel next to his cot. "You're a bloody fool," he grumbled.

As light encompassed the room, Porthos turned back to his friend. Aramis sat there looking the picture of dejection and misery. Wearing only his breeches and a free flowing white shirt, Aramis looked much younger than his years. His suffering was palpable and Porthos frustration and annoyance died a little.

"I c-cant handle it any longer."

The choked words had Porthos moving forward again, he gently pulled his friend's hand away from his face. There was some obvious swelling. A little bit of guilt started to fester. Aramis might have been avoiding treatment but he wouldn't have needed treatment had Porthos not gotten them into a stupid fight over a game of cards.

He sighed again, pushing himself up into a standing position and reached down for the other musketeer's arm. "C'mere." He dragged a bedraggled Aramis up from the floor and deposited him on the edge of his bed. "It's bad?"

Aramis nodded, his eyes clenched shut, holding himself so still he was practically shaking. It was counter-productive and a little worrying. Porthos knelt before his friend, placing a large calloused hand on Aramis shoulder. Heat radiated off the Spaniard through the material of his shirt, spiking Porthos' concern to new levels. "I think I got some brandy somewhere in 'ere." Porthos turned to glance around his small quarters, trying to think where he'd last seen that bottle of brandy when he felt Aramis' hand on his arm.

"Kill me," Aramis demanded, his eyes now open, slightly glazed. "Please," he begged.

Porthos grinned. "Bit dramatic, dontcha think?"

"It's on fire, Porthos. I just want it to stop. I feel ... I feel like death." Aramis head dropped forward, his fevered forehead resting on the bare arm Porthos still held to his shoulder.

Porthos frowned, all humor gone in a second. He ducked his head lower, trying to see his friend's eyes from under the mess of curls obscuring his face. "What do you want me to do?"

Aramis took a shaky breath before speaking. "Make it stop. Please," he begged. It made Porthos uncomfortable. Aramis never begged. In fact he was sure in the years that he had known the man he had not once heard him beg. It was bloody unnatural. Aramis was then looking at him, his eyes beseeching and more than a little unfocussed, his lashes wet from moisture ... or tears. Porthos wasn't sure anymore. "Knock me out. Please Porthos, I can't handle it anymore."

"I'm not knocking you out. You need to let me help you."

"I'll do anything. I don't care anymore ... arghh..." he paused, squeezing his eyes shut once more against an obvious wave of pain. "I don't care anymore."

With his free hand Porthos reached up and felt his friend's forehead. It was hot. It was very hot. "You're burning up." Porthos growled. Infection had set in. He'd let it fester too long and now ...Porthos growled again. He should have done something sooner. He should have knocked the stupid bastard out and dragged him to a doctor. Porthos shook his head, frustration and regret pouring off him in waves. "Idiot," he muttered.

The decision was made though. Something needed to be done and done now. Aramis was in agony and had a fever. What had been an amusing tale of stupidly and stubbornness had turned into something very serious ... dangerous.

Porthos went to stand, but was halted by the grip Aramis had on his wrist as it suddenly tightening. He gently pried his friend's white knuckled grip from his wrist and watched worriedly as Aramis seemed to fold in on himself without his support. He didn't have time to wallow. He needed to act.

He stood quickly, snagging a shirt from his floor and throwing it over his head as he moved across the room to the shelf. He snagged the bottle of ... wine. No brandy. Wine would have to do. He quickly returned to Aramis' side and wrapped his friend's hand around the bottle. "Take this."

Aramis nodded and then glanced up at Porthos. "Porthos, hit me. Maybe ... maybe if you hit me hard enough you can knock the tooth out completely." His eyes were wide, like saucers ... again with the begging.

"Shut up." Porthos growled, reaching for his breeches, hurriedly slipping them on. "I'm going to get Athos." He hoped the older Musketeer had not drunk himself into a stupor. They needed his help. He hopped a bit, attempting to get his boots on, almost ending up on his backside in the process. Dressed as much as he needed to be, Porthos knelt back in front of Aramis, grabbing him by both shoulders this time. "I'll be back in a minute. Just ... hold on, right?"

Aramis shaky nod was enough consent and in seconds Porthos was out of his door and stalking towards Athos' quarters. It shouldn't have come to this. Damn him, he thought as he raced down the walkway. He wanted to shake Aramis for allowing himself to get this bad. It had been two weeks since the initial incident and despite looking miserable; he hadn't made any real complaints. Porthos hadn't thought anything else of it, trusting that if the situation got worse that Aramis would see to it before it got to this point. He should have known. His friend was a good medic, but a terrible patient.

As he reached Athos' room he slowed down, taking a calming breath before banging loudly on the wooden door. "Athos!" he called in a loud whisper. He didn't want to wake the whole garrison. He didn't think Aramis or anyone else would appreciate that. His fist hit its mark a good few more times before it suddenly swung open. Athos looked annoyed, half asleep and ready to murder Porthos with just a look.

"What is it?" He asked, his voice tired and quiet, despite the deadly look on his face.

"It's Aramis. We need to get 'im to a doctor."

Athos frowned but didn't say another word before retreating back into his room. Porthos waited, impatiently as Athos got himself ready in silence. In a few moments the older man emerged, dressed, carrying his weapons in his hand. Despite his quiet countenance, Athos was clearly aware of the urgency.

"Where is he?"

"In my quarters. Nearly killed the idiot, wakin' me up the way 'e did." Porthos explained, his mind taking him back to the moment when he realized he was choking the life out of his best friend. Aramis had been lucky he hadn't had a weapon close at hand.

With a quick stop to pick up Aramis clothes and boots, the two Musketeers found themselves back in Porthos' quarters. Their ailing friend was curled up in a foetal position on Porthos bed, clutching his face, the wine bottle on the floor, discarded.

Porthos glanced at Athos and saw concern in the swordsman's eyes, reconfirming that things were much more dire than they needed to be. Athos walked over to the bed, dropping his weapons to the floor and reached for their friend. Aramis startled at being manhandled but quickly tried to help Athos get him into a seated position.

"Are you ready to listen to reason now?" Athos asked, his tone even, despite the worried gaze. Porthos was grateful for his presence. It brought calmness over the room that quelled the panic that had been spreading in his heart.

When Aramis didn't respond with anything more than a nod and a moan, Porthos could feel his panic battling back against Athos' calm. "We need to take 'im to that healer." He repeated.

Athos sighed, keeping hand at the back of Aramis' neck, squeezing gently in support as he twisted to look up at Porthos. "We cannot just go blazing into the court with Aramis in this condition. It would be too dangerous."

"What then?" Porthos asked, frustration edged its way into his voice.

"We could get a surgeon to come to us," Athos suggested.

"No..." Aramis was shaking his head again and Porthos felt irritation making its way back. The man was sitting there, in distress and he still didn't want to listen to them. Of all the stubborn, stupid ...

"Not here." Aramis elaborated, interrupting Porthos' internal tirade. "I just ... not at the garrison."

Porthos looked from Aramis' trembling form to Athos. It took a moment but then understanding finally dawned. Aramis didn't want everyone in the garrison to know his dilemma and undoubtedly they would if he made enough noise. It was a matter of stupid pride but Porthos could understand it.

"Okay, where do we take 'im then?" Porthos directed his question at Athos.

Athos paused for a moment, looking at their friend, mind clearly ticking over their options. "We take him to Madame Bonacieux."

Porthos raised an eyebrow. The idea had merit. "d'Artagnan said her 'usband was away on business." They could leave Aramis in Constance's capable hands while they snuck into the court of miracles and caught themselves a healer.

"Perfect." Athos was already in motion, holding his hands out for Aramis clothes which Porthos handed to him immediately. "You need to get dressed, Aramis. Are you with us?"

It took a moment but Aramis eventually nodded. "Y-Yes" he responded as he grasped the doublet that Athos shoved onto his lap. He whimpered a little as he pulled his hand away from his face. It was a pitiful sight.

Athos moved back to allow Aramis enough space to get himself dressed. The boots were harder with Aramis shaky hands and Porthos watched as Athos wordlessly helped the stubborn Spaniard pull his boots on. It was a gentle scene, no judgement between any of them other than the judgement Aramis would have no doubt put upon himself for needing such help.

"Sorry..." Aramis mumbled around his aching jaw.

"Start that and I'll break another tooth," Athos told the younger man as he gently helped him to stand, slipping Aramis suspenders over his shoulders as if helping their comrade dress was just something completely natural. It allowed that sense of calm to come back. And Porthos was grateful for it.

"In truth ... I didn't think it would get this bad," Aramis admitted.

"You shoulda seen the healer or a bloody surgeon like we said," Porthos admonished.

"I know. I just ..."

"It no longer matters," Athos interrupted the conversation. They all knew the situation. For whatever reason, Aramis was dead set against dental surgeons. He'd backed away from the idea like it terrified him. But Athos was right. None of that mattered right now, as clearly the pain in his tooth outweighed Aramis' fear of the surgeon. "We need to move, unless you're content with killing yourself over a toothache?" Athos asked.

"It'd be a pretty pathetic way to go for a Musketeer," Porthos agreed, pulling Aramis with him towards the door. "Let's go. We'll fix this, my friend."

The Three Musketeers made their way to the stables and made quick work of saddling two horses while Aramis crouched by the wall. Every movement seemed to make him crawl into himself, causing Porthos to feel unsettled again. He'd witnessed Aramis injured in the past, yet he'd never seen him so incapacitated by something so small.

Porthos waited until Athos had mounted his horse before moving over to their friend and pulling him into a standing position. "Come on. Let's get you on the horse."

It sent off alarm bells for Porthos that Aramis didn't argue about his transportation. His sole attention was on the waves of agony resonating from his mouth. It took a couple of tries but once Aramis was seated safely behind Athos, Porthos mounted his own steed and they headed out of the garrison without another word. The faster they got to Constance the faster they could get the healer to Aramis.

TBC...

A/N: Thank you so much for reading if you got this far. This was supposed to be a short one-shot in order to get my feet wet in this fandom, but ... I couldn't of course make the toothache that simple hehe what would be the fun in that? My own tooth problem is not as dire and will hopefully be gone by the end of next week LOL Cannot come soon enough.

The wait for the next chapter will not be more than 2 weeks, so stay tuned :) If you do have a moment I would of course love to hear/read your thoughts. Thanks for reading :)