Disclaimer: The Musketeers are not mine. I'm just borrowing the concepts and characters for a little while.
Spoilers: 1.07 A Rebellious Woman.
A/N: Yet another story that decided to go in a completely different direction than I had intended.
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"Poison. Wash your hands. Everything's soaked in it." – Athos to d'Artagnan, 1.07 A Rebellious Woman.
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His time spent the night before with Constance would've been perfect had it not been for a lingering headache. He'd suffered severe migraines as a boy, but thankfully this one remained a "simple" headache, which could very easily and very happily be ignored while he was with Constance.
The next morning, they'd eaten breakfast together, trading kisses and bites of food. They just seemed to fit together, and he couldn't remember ever being happier since he'd come to Paris. Only receiving his commission to the Musketeers could even come close to competing.
It was only when he'd stepped foot outside the Bonacieux house that he realized that his headache was still plaguing him.
He'd had every intention of going directly to the garrison, but somehow in his distraction of thoughts of Constance as well as his lingering pain, he found himself heading in the wrong direction and towards Athos's lodgings. When he realized what he was doing, he began to turn around, but something told him to continue on his original path.
It was the same type of urging he had felt the night he'd saved Athos from his burning manor. If he had ignored the feeling that night, then Athos would have perished, so he refused to ignore it now. Instead, he increased his speed to the point that he was almost running through the streets.
By the time he had arrived at Athos's lodgings, d'Artagnan has worked himself up into a near panic over the man's health and knocked on the door more forcefully than was perhaps proper. When there was no answer, he tried to mollify his worry by reasoning to himself that his friend was probably sleeping off excess drink consumed the night before and hadn't heard his knocking. He had seen that Athos liked Ninon and had heard of his reaction to one of the witnesses during her trial. It wouldn't be all that surprising for the older man to drown himself in alcohol in reaction to her forced departure.
He knocked again, and called out for his friend, but again there was no answer and no noise at all coming from within. His mind tried to rationalize the situation yet again, but this time he ignored it in favor of listening to his gut instinct that Athos was in trouble. Not caring about manners, d'Artagnan tried the door latch; it was not locked so he stepped inside without an invitation.
Immediately, d'Artagnan was assaulted with the stench of stale wine and decaying vomit which was permeating the room. He'd never known or even heard of Athos having such a reaction to drinking too much; usually, there was only a sore head and a grumpier-than-usual mood to deal with after such a night. He left the door open to air the place out and hurried to Athos's bedside, side-stepping the small mess on the floor.
Athos was lying curled up on his right side with his left arm clutching his abdomen and his right arm being used as both a pillow and a means of blocking out light in the room. Relief over the fact that he could see that Athos was breathing in no way outweighed his skyrocketing worry that repeated attempts to wake the older man have failed to make him stir even the slightest amount.
As he rearranged his friend's unconscious body into a more comfortable position and fixed the bedclothes to cover him, d'Artagnan considered his options. He should go find a physician, but he couldn't abide the idea of leaving Athos alone and in such a vulnerable position, especially when his murderess wife was still out there somewhere, desiring revenge. Suddenly, remembering the bucket of water that Porthos once told him about, he went to the window to retrieve it and finding a rag, he wet it in the cool water and placed it on Athos's forehead. His friend does not react to it, but he knew it couldn't hurt even though there was no obvious fever.
Another failed attempt to wake his pale friend had him deciding that the stillness was worse than the idea of leaving the unconscious man alone for a short time. D'Artagnan gripped the older man's forearm for a moment and then stood straight, deciding he couldn't delay another moment in getting help for Athos.
At the door, he turned and looked back. "I promise to be back as soon as possible. Just don't…" D'Artagnan's voice failed him and he had to swallow down the lump that had formed in his throat. "Don't go anywhere, okay?"
He could feel the weight of his words as he rushed down the stairs to the street. Not only were they a vow but a plea as well. Profoundly aware that Aramis and Porthos would be devastated by the loss of Athos, d'Artagnan was absolutely certain that he would feel exactly the same even though he hadn't known the older man as long.
Doing his best to avoid running into people on the streets, he rushed towards the Musketeer garrison in hopes that Aramis would already be there. When he turned the next corner, he spotted a Musketeer farther down the street, the man's light brown pauldron a sudden beacon of hope. He ran full tilt towards the man and caught up to him in seconds. Luckily, it was someone he was familiar with and he asked Dantes to locate Aramis as soon as possible.
The burden of leaving Athos alone had lifted a little now that he was free to return to his friend's side, but it was not yet gone. Not caring how it may look, he ran back to his friend's lodgings as fast as his legs would carry him.
When he opened the door to Athos's lodgings, he thanked God that his friend was still with him – in most senses of the word.
"I'm back!" he declared, ignoring the fact that his friend probably couldn't hear him. "I told you I wouldn't be gone very long."
He couldn't help but be disappointed when Athos does not react to his voice. Grabbing a chair, he set it by the bed and sat for a moment before impulsively pinching the other man's arm. When there was still no reaction, he sighed and decided to make himself useful, not knowing how long it would be before Aramis and Porthos arrived. He pinched at the bridge of his nose for a long moment in hopes of relieving some of the ache that has continued to linger in his head before getting to work.
D'Artagnan began by refreshing the cold compress on Athos's forehead. He then sought out a couple more rags and cleaned up the vomit on the floor. Not wanting to leave his friend again, he set them just outside the door to avoid having to smell the stench. He was about half-way through straightening up the room as a whole when the door was thrown open and Aramis stormed in followed by Porthos.
"What's happened?" Aramis asked, not wasting any time as he stepped towards the bed.
While the sharpshooter checked Athos for signs of what could be ailing him, d'Artagnan recounted how he had found the older man upon his arrival, only skipping the tiny detail of why he'd not gone straight to the garrison.
Porthos, who had been taking in everything that was going on around him asked, "Has he done it to himself again?"
"Done what?" d'Artagnan inquired, feeling like a bucket of cold water has just been thrown on him at the very idea of Athos purposely harming himself.
Aramis and Porthos exchanged a guarded look, before the latter answered, "There have been a few times over the last five years that Athos has poisoned 'imself with too much drink." He shuffled his feet and gestured at their friend as he continued, "It looks a lot like this."
D'Artagnan was certain that this was not the case, but before he could say that, Aramis asked to see his hands.
Confused by the request, d'Artagnan offered his hands, palms downward, to the other man. Aramis grabbed them and turned them over before quickly examining them, seeming to take extra time looking at the tips of his fingers.
Frustrated that Aramis was not treating Athos, d'Artagnan pulled his hands away only to have the older man reach for them again. He stepped back to escape, but was unsuccessful, having his right wrist caught in an almost crushing grip.
"Aramis! What—?" he began to ask, while attempting to pull his wrist free, but Aramis silenced him with a stern look.
His friend lightly ran his fingers over the tops of his, causing his hand to jerk reflexively.
Finally, Aramis let his hand go and looked at him as if he was trying to diagnose an ailment. He felt fine except for his headache, which wasn't an unusual occurrence for him. Why wasn't he trying to figure out what was wrong with Athos?
"D'Artagnan," Aramis said in a tone a voice he recognized; it was reserved for when they were in deep trouble. "How do you feel?"
His stomach lurched as Porthos stepped closer to them both, obviously recognizing from Aramis's voice that something was really wrong.
"I'm fine," d'Artagnan replied, reaching up to rub his forehead, unintentionally revealing a different truth. Then again, in his mind, headaches weren't anything to complain about, though the stress of the situation was making his current one worse.
"Are you sure?" Aramis asked, obviously not believing what he'd been told.
"Yes!" he replied, starting to get angry, but then admitted, "It's just a headache; I've had to deal with them for most of my life. Why aren't you helping Athos?"
Aramis ignored his question and asked one of his own, "And this headache, is it just like the others?"
That question plus Aramis's recent actions finally made it passed his worry for Athos and the pain in his head. He finally recognized what the older man was suggesting and took a step back.
"No, it's… My migraines usually affect the right side of my head. This one is an all-over general achiness and started sometime yesterday; I can't remember when." A pain unexpectedly shot through his right eye – a primary indicator for him of an oncoming migraine. He brought the heel of his hand up to his eye, hoping the pressure would help ease the increasing pain. "I thought… I…"
"You alright?" Porthos asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.
This was a complication they, and especially Athos, did not need so he ignored it for the moment. D'Artagnan dropped his hand and looked at Aramis. "I think you're right, Aramis."
Porthos used his grip on his shoulder to gently shake him a little. "Right about what?"
"Sestini's poison," Aramis replied while d'Artagnan nodded. "I believe that Athos and d'Artagnan are suffering from its affects."
"What?! How?"
"The poison is absorbed through the skin, Porthos," Aramis began explaining. He pointed at d'Artagnan. "Our youngest touched a book whose pages were damp with it for barely a minute, but Athos handled items with a greater concentration of the poison on them – and for a longer period of time."
"But they washed their hands," the taller man reminded as d'Artagnan went to sit in the chair he had placed by Athos's bed.
"Yes, they did, but apparently they weren't thorough enough," their healer said, moving to stand beside d'Artagnan once more. He gestured towards Athos. "Add too much drink and I think this is the result."
Porthos shifted to stand beside his friends. "But how did you know?"
From his seat, d'Artagnan lifted his hand and quietly said, "The poison stained my fingertips a very pale yellow; you can barely see it, but it's there. It's much more visible on Athos's fingers." He looked up at his older friends. "Is there nothing we can do?"
Aramis ran a hand through his hair a couple of times. "Athos has already vomited so it's pointless to try an emetic. I…I don't know what else I can do."
"We could send for a physician," Porthos suggested.
"This is not your average poison. I can't think of any physician in this city capable of handling it." Aramis shook his head. "No, I think we're just going to have wait and hope he wakes up."
Porthos threw his arms up into the air in frustration and loudly exclaimed, "We're just going to sit here and do nothing?!"
"Of course not!" Aramis yelled in return, his temper having been lost due to the stress of the situation. "We are not abandoning Athos! We're going to keep him comfortable and pray he comes back to us!" The marksman took a calming breath and concluded, "The Cardinal survived; Athos will too."
Unfortunately, for d'Artagnan their raised voices were like bolts of lightning striking his already aching head. He couldn't tell if the poison-induced headache had evolved into a severe migraine, or if the migraine was a separate problem that had joined forces with the poison-induced headache; either way, he couldn't ignore the pain anymore. Aramis and Porthos's overly loud voices had been the last straw, and he groaned as he hunched over in agony, grabbing his head to keep it from splitting wide open.
He heard concerned voices trying to get his attention, but he wasn't able to understand a word they were saying because his mind was clouded with so much pain. After that, d'Artagnan was only aware of short, random moments intermixed with the torment going on inside his head.
Aramis's voice whispering, pleading for him to talk to them. Being sick to his stomach. Hearing the word "migraine." A hand gently massaging the base of his neck. Feeling himself being lifted out of the chair and laid out on something soft. Something cold being draped over his forehead and eyes. A blanket covering him. Darkness.
Awareness returned slowly and he could hear voices talking quietly somewhere nearby. Seconds, minutes, or hours could've passed before he eventually remembered what had happened. He was worried for Athos and wondered how his friend was, but he didn't have the energy to move let alone speak. His head still throbbed but the pain wasn't quite as debilitating as before. He welcomed the darkness when it returned.
More time passed, but this time when he awakened he was better aware of his surroundings and his memories returned in good measure.
Athos.
Was his friend even still alive? Could he live with himself if his illness had distracted the others from the older man's care, costing Athos his life?
He started to panic, and knew he should be careful lest his migraine rebound, but he had to know. He had to know his friend's fate.
"Athos?" he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
Reaching up to remove the cold compress covering half his face, he swallowed and tried again, opening his eyes for the first time. "Athos?"
Still not getting any response, he began pushing the blanket aside as he tried again, louder than before. "Athos?!"
Suddenly, Aramis was crouching down beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Calm yourself, d'Artagnan. Athos is alive! He woke up a couple of hours ago, but is asleep right now. You're the one who gave us all a fright." D'Artagnan tried to get up, but his friend immediately pushed him back down. "I swear to you that he is going to be fine. He has a hangover from hell that, and I quote, 'Sestini must have sent from his new home,' but he will recover." His friend gently tapped his chest a couple of times. "Do you understand?"
D'Artagnan had heard everything Aramis had said, but his muzzy mind refused to believe it until he saw Athos for himself.
His friend must have seen something in his expression, because he sighed and starting helping him up. Only then had d'Artagnan become aware of the fact that he had been lying on a pile of blankets on the floor in the darkest part of the room.
As he slowly made his way over to Athos's bed, he finally realized that Porthos was missing from the room. Aramis must have turned into a mind reader because his friend answered a question he hadn't yet asked.
"Porthos is rounding up some dinner for us; something easy on the stomach. He'll be back soon."
He had other questions, but they could wait now that Aramis was carefully lowering him onto the bedside chair.
Athos opened his eyes and the relief he felt at seeing the older man awake was immeasurable.
"I thought you were sleeping," Aramis said to their bedridden friend.
"I was, but I heard d'Artagnan calling my name," Athos quietly responded, looking worn out and worried at the same time.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. I just…I needed to see that you were alright for myself," d'Artagnan said, feeling guilty for disturbing his friend. "When I found you earlier, you wouldn't… and I..."
He trailed off, closing his eyes and rubbing a hand over his face in an attempt to rid himself of not only the post-migraine lethargy but also nightmare flashes of Death claiming his friends. With every mission he and his friends risked their lives, but he was in no way prepared to lose any of them so soon after finding them.
A hand on his knee and two others on his shoulders made him open his eyes. He hadn't even noticed that Porthos had returned, but was grateful that the other man had come back in time for this moment.
Looking at his three friends in turn, he could see that they had been similarly affected by what had happened on this day and that they were just as determined to not let their friends go without a fight.
"Are you alright?" Athos asked, concern coloring his voice.
"I am now," d'Artagnan replied with a smile.
And with Athos, Aramis, and Porthos by his side, he would always be alright.
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The end.
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A/N: I have only seen up to episode 7 and have no idea if there is a 'morning after' scene between d'Artagnan and Constance. Please don't spoil anything for me. Thanks.
No beta; mistakes are probable. :)
Thanks for reading!