Hello, everyone!
I recently started watching The Musketeers show, and I fell completely in love with it. This is my first Musketeers fanfiction, so please, read and review! Italics are thoughts, in case you hadn't gathered that while reading.
Enjoy!
~TeamCapForever
Aramis woke slowly, his head pounding. Grinning, he immediately thought, I must have had an exciting drinking night. It certainly had to be Athos worthy to cause a headache this bad. Opening his eyes, Aramis was surprised. Athos and Porthos were both laying in the beds beside him. What happened? The marksman struggled to get up, feeling weak. Oh, I remember. I was sick. His friends must have caught it from him. Looking around, he saw d'Artagnan propped up in a chair next to his bedside, feet resting on Aramis' bed, sleeping. The boy looked exhausted. No doubt he had been looking after them. But they were at the garrison... Why didn't any help him? Or at least make d'Artagnan rest? Aramis wanted answers. Then Porthos started to awaken.
"Keep it down, looks like our boy needs some rest. He probably didn't sleep much at all."
At the sound of Aramis' voice, d'Artagnan shifted, but didn't open his eyes, as he said, "'Mis, it's alright. Nobody was hurt, I promise."
The older musketeers both raised their eyebrows.
"It would seem you talked in your fevered sleep, my friend."
The boy stirred at Porthos' voice, as well. "Just sleep, Porthos. Everyone is safe," he murmured.
Aramis turned to his friend and stuck his tongue out, but lowered his voice even more as he replied, "Apparently, so do you."
Now Athos was waking, groaning, before either of the others could hush him.
"Wasn't your fault, 'Thos," d'Artagnan said, shifting once more.
In extremely hushed tones, Athos was informed of the situation. The three stood, albeit shakily, to discover what had happened while they were sick. It was little more than a blurry mess for all of them. Unfortunately, the creaking boards woke their younger brother.
Yawning, d'Artagnan asked, "What are you doing up?" The young Gascon got to his feet as he spoke, holding his left arm close to his body.
"d'Artagnan! We were going to ask around about what had happened. The garisson was quiet, you were nearly unconscious, and - what happened to your arm?" Aramis' words came out swiftly, making d'Artagnan's head swim.
He waved his right arm dismissively. "It was merely a squirmish, nothing more. I dislocated my shoulder. Back to bed, the lot of you. I don't want to have to lift your heavy bodies again."
Athos raised an eyebrow. "Of course. Could you possibly start from the beginning and tell us exactly what happened?"
d'Artagnan sat back down in the chair stiffly. He yawned again, though this time, his jaw popped. "Aramis got sick, Porthos caught it from him, you could it from Porthos. There was a fight out in the courtyard between two musketeers, and I happened to be standing there, so I broke it up. Except one of them dislocated my shoulder and the other one gave me a black eye and concussion. They stopped arguing, so all's well that ends well, I suppose. I popped my shoulder back in and came back up here. I haven't let anyone else come in because all three of you attempted to attack anyone who did enter. And here we are. I'll go get you some more food."
His older brothers protested.
"No, don't d'Artagnan, you rest. We can ask someone to bring us food. Porthos?"
Porthos obligingly opened the door and called out to the stable boy who came by, asking for "a healthy meal, lad! I'm withering away!"
While he was doing so, Aramis asked, "I do hope you meant you had someone pop your shoulder back in?"
Slouching further in his chair, getting comfortable enough to take a nap, the boy shook his head.
"Dare I even ask how you did it by yourself?"
d'Artagnan was drifting off, merely mumbling a, "knocked it into the wall a few times till it slid back in."
"Wait! Don't go back to sleep yet!"
The boy huffed, but opened an eye to look at the other musketeers.
"Why haven't you gotten sick?" Aramis was determined to get answers.
Closing the eye again, he replied, "I did"
The older men shared a glance and Athos said, "You may rest for now, but we are not done with this conversation. Aramis will look at you after your nap. Why don't you move to one of the beds?"
d'Artagnan didn't answer, already fast asleep.
Once they had all eaten, the Inseparables settled back to relax until their younger companion had awoken.
"He not only popped his own should back into the socket, but he suffered a concussion with no one to monitor it and took care of us while he himself was sick!" Both the doctor and the older brother part of Aramks were frantic.
"The lad did good, 'Mis. Stop worrying," soothed Porthos. "A little rest and he'll be back up and running.
Another hour later, d'Artagnan did stir. The other three were immediately at his side.
"...Can I help you, gentlemen?" d'Artanan quipped with a grin. He still looked exhausted.
"First things first! You are going to let me check you over."
The young Gascon protested, "I'm fine!"
At his friends' glares, he was silenced.
"You aren't getting out of this."
Several minutes later, the medic growled. "What is this?!" Aramis demanded, poking at the black and blue bruises all over d'Artagnan's side.
"Ow! That hurts, 'Mis! It's just from when I got knocked aside by the two fighting musketeers. I caught a table with my side." He continued murmuring, "Or maybe it's from when you tried to punch me? Or was it when I was pushed into that wall? No... I think it is from the table."
"I-I tried to hit you?" Aramis stuttered.
Again, the boy waved his hand dismissively. "You were hallucinating. Thought I was whoever you were actually trying to attack. Don't worry, it only happened once. And you didn't actually hit me."
"Boy, what did you get yourself into while we were down? You look like you went a round with a concrete block. And the block won," Athos said dryly.
d'Artagnan grinned. "You know me. I always find trouble."
"Come on, up you go. You can rest in one of the beds."
Athos and Porthos helped him up, while Aramis watched with a critical eye. d'Artagnan sucked in a breath sharply when he went to lay down. His bruised torso complained at the treatment. Aramis retrieved a jar and set about spreading its contents onto the boy's ribs.
"How did you manage to take care of us while you were sick? I don't really remember any of the past days, which means it can't have been all that pleasant," Porthos said.
Yawning, d'Artagnan replied, "Jus' did what I 'ad to."
It wasn't long before their younger brother was asleep again. Athos gently ran a hand through the boy's hair, smiling when he leaned into it. While he slept, the Inseparables went to see Captain Treville.
"Athos, Porthos, Aramis," the captain said, nodding to each in turn. "Where's d'Artagnan?"
Aramis' face grew dark at the name of their youngest and replied with a short, "he's resting."
Treville raised an eyebrow, almost perfectly imitating Athos. "Shouldn't you three be doing the same?"
"We were hoping you could clear some things up for us," Athos said, stepping towards the desk.
Their captain sighed. "Yes, I suppose you are. Please, take a seat." Once they were all seated, he continued. "If you remember, Aramis came back from you last mission with the beginnings of an illness."
His men nodded.
"You two and d'Artagnan were watching over him before Porthos fell sick, and then Athos. The boy was doing well, and all was well for awhile, but the sickness caused you to hallucinate and for some unknown reason, d'Artagnan was only one who could get through to you. Anytime someone else came into the room, even if you were asleep, you would startle and the boy would have to convince you not to behead the other musketeers."
The three men looked somewhat sheepish at the news. It explained what d'Artagnan had said about Aramis trying to punch him. At least they hadn't tried to kill their younger brother.
"Eventually, d'Artaganan forbid anyone else from entering, trying to prevent any... unfortunate accidents. A couple of days later, an argument broke into a fight, as d'Artagnan was getting food. As I left my office to see what the commotion was about, he was attempting to break up the fight. One of them, whom I shall not name for the safety of my musketeers, was angry and proceeded to shove him at the same time that the other man, who shall also remain nameless, grabbed his arm and took a swing at face. Thus ending with the boy having what I suspected to be a dislocated shoulder, a concussion, and the beginnings of a black eye."
"He did indeed have all three, as well as seriously bruised ribs from a table... Or so he thought," Aramis said.
Treville nodded. "I shall get there momentarily. After the men were dispersed, I am certain that you know our young Gascon well enough to know that when I asked him if he was alright..."
"He said he was fine," Porthos sighed.
"He did. While I attempted to point out his obviously dislocated shoulder, he promptly slammed it into the wall, popping it back into place."
Now it was Athos' turn to sigh.
"d'Artagnan left with the food and water, and returned to the three of you. I tried to check on him as often as possible, since he couldn't deny his captain entry," Treville smirked. "It soon became clear that he was coming down with the same sickness. I ordered him to rest, and I am sure that he did so, in between caring for you. However, beyond that, I couldn't persuade him to do anything else. I looked in several times to find him slumped in a chair, sleeping. To my knowledge, he is still suffering, due to his apparent lack of self preservation."
"What about the table?" Porthos asked.
The captain frowned. "He is... unliked by many of the other musketeers and recruits due to his young age. Since he began here at the garrison, I've had to deal with several men who have decided to, "teach the boy a lesson." The unfortunate meeting of his side and the table were one of them. I am assuming you did not know of these incidents?"
The dark expressions on his men's faces were answer enough.
"There will be a severe talk, I can assure you," Athos muttered.
"We shall return to d'Artagnan. Thank you, Captain."
Treville nodded as the Inseparables left. When they returned to their room, d'Artagnan was piling up the bedding.
"What do you think you're doing?!" Aramis demanded. The boy looked confused.
"I'm changing the blankets so they can be washed."
"Back to bed with you!"
The boy huffed. "'Mis, I'm fine."
At the medic's glare, he reluctantly sat back down on a bed.
"And when were you going to tell us about the others beating you up? Hmm?"
d'Artagnan shrugged. "I'm used to it. I didn't see the need."
"Didn't see the n-" Porthos started, until the first sentence registered. "What do you mean, you're used to it?"
He shrugged again, wincing when he pulled too hard against his ribs. "It's been that way my entire life. I didn't expect the garrison to be any different."
"The musketeers are to be men of honor. It should be different," Athos said.
"Again, it's always been this way."
Porthos looked as if he couldn't decide if he was angry or upset, resulting in a facial expression that would have been amusing, if not for the circumstances.
d'Artagnan tried, and failed, to repress yet another yawn, as his brothers exchanged glances. Athos reached up to grip the back of the Gascon's neck gently.
"We are your brothers, d'Artagnan. We want to help you. We want to know when someone hurts you. And you will tell us if this happens again," Athos said, guiding their youngest to lay down on the bed, as he leaned into the older man's hand, closing his eyes and relaxing.
"'M not t'rd, 'Thos."
His older brothers grinned. d'Artagnan may be just over twenty years old, but when he was sick, hurt, or tired, he was like a child.
"Of course not," Athos agreed, pulling a blanket over him and running a hand through d'Artagnan's hair. "I just want to make sure you're comfortable. You might take a few minutes to rest."
The boy sighed in contenment. "On'y few min'tes," he replied, rolling to his stomach and wiggling his right hand under his cheek. And then he was asleep once again.
Athos, Porthos, and Aramis chuckled, then set about cleaning the room.
The next morning, d'Artagnan opened his eyes and saw the sun coming up. He shot up, forgetting about his ribs, before he hissed in pain, and held his arm over his stomach protectively.
"Breathe, d'Art, breathe. In... Out..." Aramis talked to him until the boy could find it in him to shoot a glare at the medic.
"Why did you let me sleep that long? I have stuff to do, you know! I'm behind on my work!"
d'Artagnan went to stand, catching the edge of a chair to hold him steady. At that moment, Porthos came in the door with Athos and stopped at the scene before him. d'Artagnan, holding the chair for support, glaring at the medic, who still sat on the bed and was trying to soothe him.
"What did you do, Aramis?" Athos sighed.
Aramis looked affronted. "Me? Why do you automatically assume its my fault? Maybe d'Artagnan just woke up on the wrong side of the bed! Maybe he's just grumpy!"
Athos came and placed a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, trying to guide him back to the bed. The young man couldn't decide whether to continue his anger towards the marksman or listen to his mentor. Eventually, Athos' gentle touch convinced him to stop glaring at Aramis.
"You still shouldn't have let me sleep," he said, carefully making his way to the door.
"Where do you think you're going, lad?" Porthos asked, stepping in front of it.
The Gascon's glare almost rivaled Athos'. "I have things to do, Porthos. I'm already behind on my work as it is. So kindly move out of the way. I'll even say please."
However, just as the large man was nearly immune to the older musketeer's glare, so he was with d'Artagnan's. Draping an arm over his shoulder, Porthos went to steer him back to bed.
"I think you need to rest a little longer, my friend. You don't have too much work to do."
d'Artagnan wasn't listening. He refused to hear what either Porthos or Aramis had to say, to stubborn to heed his brothers' words. As he ducked out of Porthos' reach, he headed once more towards the door.
"Athos, do something," Aramis hissed.
The man raised an eyebrow at his friend. "What, pray tell, am I to do about it?"
"He listens to you! I don't care if you have to promise for us to do his work, just get him back in that bed to rest!"
Athos sighed once more. Striding out of the room, he caught up to the young man. "d'Artagnan, you must understand that they are merely worried about you."
"You aren't worried, so why should they be?"
"I didn't say I wasn't. I want to make sure that you are alright before you go off, doing the things you need to get done."
"It doesn't matter, Athos. It has to be done whether I'm fine or not."
Now, the older man knew that d'Artagnan craved human touch. While his father certainly gave a "well done" clap on the shoulder, or even the occasional hug, he never really filled the want to be touched in the way that meant "I love you" or "I care about you." The casual arm around the shoulders or clap on the back. If Athos used it to his advantage when the boy was being too stubborn, well, no one could prove it. Before they reached the stairs, Athos once again placed his hand on the back of the boy's neck, rubbing a little to ease the tension there. "Tell me what you need done. I will see to it. Aramis and Porthos are more than willing to help. You can rest for awhile longer."
d'Artagnan was already starting to relax. "But, 'Thos..."
"No 'but's', my boy. Come rest, I'll take care of it."
His younger brother merely hummed, not offering any argument. Athos continued to talk to him softly, moving his hand from the boy's neck to his back, rubbing gently. He led him back into the bedroom, Aramis and Porthos staring. d'Artagnan wasn't arguing, or being dragged kicking and screaming. He was quietly allowing the older musketeer to guide him.
"Is he hurt?" Aramis asked, immediately checking the boy over to see if he had suffered another injury. Smiling, Athos said, "No, Aramis. He's alright."
They managed to get their brother to lay down.
"'Mis..."
"Shhh, d'Art, we will talk about it later. What do you need done? We will help you."
The boy started up, but Athos smoothed d'Artagnan's hair, and he settled, giving them his list.
The Inseparables all looked at the now sleeping Gascon and smiled, silently making a promise. They'd protect the king and France with their life, but they'd walk through hell itself for the young man in front of them.