1. "It's fine."
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"It's fine it's fine it's fine," d'artagnan rattled over and over again in rapid breathlessness, then cried out as his leg jerked. "Sorr—aaahhh—it's fine. It's fine. It's fine."
Athos's hand pressed down over his chest, pinning him back to the rugged table.
"Hold his leg," said Aramis calmly.
Too calmly, d'Artagnan thought as he shuddered and gasped.
It's fine it's fine it's fine.
It's fine.
Porthos's strong hand closed around his ankle, gentle but immobilizing. Uncompromising. "Steady, Charles. Steady."
D'Artagnan blinked, glanced at Porthos in confusion and his lungs paused. None of them had ever called him by his first name before.
Porthos smiled, keeping eye contact.
A sudden stabbing sensation burrowed through d'Artagnan's thigh, ripping his brain back to the matter at hand and tearing a cry from his throat.
Seconds later he heard the clank of metal against metal as the musket ball formerly residing in his flesh was dropped into a bowl. He turned his head. In his hazy field of vision, he saw Athos standing at Aramis's shoulder, removing one of Aramis's long metal tools from the medic's bloody hands and replacing it with a clean cloth.
Aramis noticed him watching. "There there, all done," he smiled. "First one in the leg is always the hardest."
D'Artagnan tried to process that. Frowned. "First?" he slurred.
"Well, only, hopefully."
"Dare it be possible," Athos drolled.
Exhaustedly rolling his head in the other direction, d'Artagnan found Porthos's eyes again. "That was a dirty trick," he mumbled.
Porthos grinned and patted his chest. "I don't know what you mean. But Aramis is right – leg's a hard one – so you best get yourself some rest."
D'Artagnan blinked his blurry eyes closed without being able to stop himself, and so only barely caught Porthos' wink.
"—Charles."
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(1/5)