AN: ThorneofAcre wanted to see Aramis and Athos post episode 3 mutually apologizing for their actions. This is my first attempt at writing Athos's POV. Honestly, the man is a closed book, so I was forced to assume more goes on in his head than ever shows on his face. I apologize if he seems out of character. I hope this is satisfying! ;)
"Don't you care about Porthos?"
The words had been echoing dully in his head for hours. Four bottles of wine had failed to silence Aramis's voice, desperate and despairing. Somehow or another, he had driven the image of his wife's face, filled with hatred and betrayal, out of his head at long last, only to have it replaced with Porthos's smile, his booming laughter… his cry of pain as an ax embedded itself deep in his back.
Athos drained the last of the bottle in his hand. He wasn't entirely sure how he was going to get home tonight. Porthos wouldn't be coming back for him. Aramis would never allow it. He would be with Porthos tonight, ensuring he did not aggravate his injury. Among other things.
Perhaps they would throw him in the street at closing and he could lie there until morning. It wouldn't be the first time. And it's not like I wouldn't deserve it, Athos thought bitterly. What was I thinking?
He had just resigned himself to a night in the gutter when D'Artagnan appeared at his elbow. Or were there two of him? Athos's vision was swimming. "Up you get," D'Artagnan muttered, hoisting Athos to his feet. "Let's get you home."
Athos tried to walk, but his legs refused to cooperate. Luckily, he'd been drinking in a tavern close to home, so D'Artagnan managed to get him to his rooms without dropping him more than twice. He maneuvered him onto the bed and left with a murmured farewell. Athos was exhausted, but even as he slipped into unconsciousness he felt a sliver of fear in the back of his mind. He did not think his dreams this night would be pleasant.
Athos sat astride his horse, watching from a distance as an indistinct figure was led towards the tree and onto a cart. He felt as if he were looking into a deep pool full of ripples, obscuring the vision. Then it suddenly came into focus.
His wife's eyes bored into him as a rope was draped round her neck. She stood proudly, head held high, forget-me-nots clasped in her tied hands. Athos turned away, unable to watch, and saw Aramis running towards him, horror written on his face, yelling soundlessly.
Athos glanced back at the tree and saw his wife was gone. In her place stood Porthos. Instead of flowers, he held a bloody ax head. Athos opened his mouth to command the executioner to stop, to free him, but the words would not come. Frozen in shock, he watched as the cart was kicked away from under Porthos's feet, the rope tightening about his neck. He heard Aramis's desperate howl.
Athos couldn't tear his eyes away from the hanging figure. Porthos stared back at him, limbs jerking obscenely. His lips curled up in a smile that made his face look like a skull, and as he began to laugh coldly Athos felt a sharp pain in his chest. Looking down, he saw the tip of Aramis's rapier piercing his heart.
Athos sat bolt upright, gasping. It took a moment to realize where he was and remember that he had not been impaled. The nightmare had been unusually vivid. Athos was often haunted by dreams of his wife's death, but they were memories only, replayed endlessly. He had never had a nightmare such as this. It had felt so real. He could still hear Aramis calling desperately for Porthos, just as he had when the man had fallen. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, he realized his hands were shaking.
He needed a drink.
He staggered upright and lancing pain shot through his skull. The hangover hadn't hit him in those first moments of terror, but it had arrived with a vengeance. He groaned and sat back down heavily, clutching his skull and trying to forget the terrible smile on Porthos's face.
He thought his head might fall clean off his shoulders when someone knocked at the door, the sound reverberating through his skull like hammer blows. The rational part of his mind that held itself back from the ache in his skull informed him that whoever was at the door was actually being rather considerate and rapping lightly, but that wasn't much of a comfort. Growling, he heaved himself to his feet and stumbled across the room to the door, yanking it open violently. Whoever was calling at this godforsaken hour, he hoped for their sake it was important.
It was Aramis.
Athos stared at him blankly for a few moments until his mind caught up with his eyes. Aramis was standing on the step, looking rather uncomfortable. His hat spun in his hands: a nervous gesture. Athos felt his chest ache dully with remembered pain and had to fight from glancing at the sword belted at Aramis's waist.
"May I come in?" Aramis asked eventually, and Athos realized he'd been staring at him for a good minute. He grunted and moved aside, allowing Aramis to wander into his sparse chambers.
Aramis stood near the wall, still fiddling with his hat. "Athos, I came to talk to you," he said almost hesitantly. "I wanted to say-"
Athos held a hand up to stop him. "A moment." If he was going to have this conversation, he needed to be more alert. He walked to the window, using the wall for support, and drew in the water bucket. He then proceeded to dunk his head carefully into the chilly liquid.
Aramis was watching him with an expression approaching concern when at last he emerged. "You'll catch your death if you keep doing that," he informed him. Athos just glared at him.
"How's Porthos?" he asked, careful to keep his voice casual as he shook the water from his hair. Porthos hanging from a tree, smiling at him, Aramis screaming…
"He's fine," Aramis said quickly. "That's not why I'm here."
Athos rose and walked more steadily to the bed, sitting down gratefully and waiting for Aramis to get to whatever had brought him to Athos's lodgings so early in the morning.
He didn't have to wait long. "I came to apologize," Aramis said, unusually blunt. "For questioning you when Porthos was injured. I suggested you did not care what happened to him. That was unfair of me."
Internally, Athos gaped at him. Of all the things that Aramis might have come to say, he had not expected an apology. Perhaps a condemnation. Certainly not this. Externally, he kept his face straight.
"I realize you were under a great deal of pressure," Aramis continued, holding his gaze. "I should not have been so quick to judge you. I am grateful that you ultimately chose Porthos over the ghosts of your past. Whatever happened must have been terrible to drive you away. It was difficult for you to return there. Thank you."
Aramis was looking at him with such sincerity that Athos wasn't sure whether he should laugh or shake the other man until he understood his own folly. People as forgiving as Aramis should not exist. Porthos had nearly died, for God's sake, and it would've been Athos's fault, and yet here Aramis stood apologizing as if he had been in the wrong all along. It was incredible.
Aramis nodded abruptly. "That's all. I will leave you to your rest." He turned to go.
"Wait," Athos croaked, finding his voice. He might be terrible at emotions and discussing one's feelings as a general rule, but even he knew he owed Aramis an apology, and Porthos as well when he saw him next. Aramis paused and looked at him, curious, waiting for Athos to continue. He swallowed hard and tried to find the words.
"You should not be apologizing to me," he said at last, each word slow and clear. "I should be begging your forgiveness for ignoring your advice. You told me Porthos would die, and I was willing to allow that rather than face old memories. Willing to take him from you for selfish reasons. What are memories, compared to Porthos's life?" He shook his head, hatred bubbling up within him. What's the matter with you? "I do not even deserve forgiveness." He heard again Porthos's pained cry. Don't you care about Porthos?
"You were thinking of the mission," Aramis said softly. "There is nothing to forgive."
Athos wanted to laugh. "The mission? No, Aramis, I was thinking of myself. I knew the wound was terrible. You said yourself he could lose his life. And still I was unwilling to return home. I am a coward." Saying the words aloud made his chest ache, echoing the path of Aramis's blade.
"You are no coward!" Aramis's voice was fierce in his defense. "We all of us have our demons, Athos. Whatever they may be, yours are darker than most. It is never easy to face them, and you were not prepared. I do not fault your hesitation."
"Porthos could've died for my peace of mind!" Athos's voice rose slightly. Had he been anyone else, he would've been roaring. As it was the words were all but torn from him. "I lost one brother. I am ashamed to have allowed myself to come so close to losing another." He closed his eyes, remembering Thomas's dead body, the horror of knowing he had failed to protect his younger brother.
Aramis was staring at him in open shock, but to Athos's great relief he did not question the secret Athos had not meant to reveal.
"But we didn't lose him," Aramis said fervently. "When it came down to it, you chose Porthos. You did not let fear rule you. That is true courage. And I for one am grateful."
"Your capacity for forgiveness knows no bounds, does it?" Athos asked him quietly. "Tell me, Aramis, could you have forgiven me, had I let Porthos die?"
For a moment, he could see the lie on Aramis's tongue, see him ready to reassure him that of course he would've forgiven him. But at last he said simply, "No. Never."
Athos nodded. Somehow that statement was far more freeing than Aramis's apologies and forgiveness. He was fiercely glad Aramis had called him on his callous behavior, forced him to face his past. He couldn't afford to be so blind when he had so much to lose. Porthos. "Thank you for your honesty."
Aramis inclined his head, smiling slightly. Athos allowed a small smile to grace his lips in response. He wondered where he would be without Aramis. Without any of them. He shuddered to think what his life might have been like if Porthos had died. There would be no laughter left, for Aramis would shortly have followed the man to the grave through his own recklessness. Athos would've drowned in drink, and D'Artagnan would've found a better role model. Another brotherhood would be broken, and it would've been his fault again.
Aramis placed his hat back on his head gracefully. "Now that we have bared our souls, I believe I will allow you to return to your rest. I wish to be back before Porthos wakes and wonders where I've got to." Athos chuckled at the thought of Porthos tearing through Paris looking for his absent lover.
He rose as Aramis turned to the door and clasped his arm firmly. Aramis nodded, understanding the words Athos did not say. It will never happen again, brother.
As he opened the door, Aramis glanced back. "You'd do well to remember, Athos," he said gently. "We are your brothers now. And we will always forgive you." Then he was gone.
Athos sank back on the bed. He heard Porthos laughing coldly once more, but this time it gradually turned into his friend's booming laughter. Aramis and D'Artagnan's voices joined the sound, and he smiled softly to himself. They were his brothers as surely a Thomas ever was, and he would not fail them. Never again would he hesitate to do whatever was necessary to defend them. This time, he would protect his family to the very gates of Hell. That was, after all, what brothers were for.
I'm working on a few requests right now, but if there's anything you'd like to see, shoot me a note in the comments. And please review!