A/N: So...this is my first work I've ever written for this fandom, and as such it might be clumsy and a bit rough around the edges, as I am still figuring out how to write for this fandom. Any guidance/criticism will be more than welcome.
Dislciamer: I don't own BBC's "The Musketeers" in any shape or form.
It was hours past the time when he would have normally retired to bed, and Athos was still wide awake, or at least as awake as he could be when he was busy drinking himself into an alcohol-induced stupor. Distantly, he realized that he should rest, for he was not aiding d'Artagnan in the slightest by depriving himself of sleep, but he was too anxious, his mind filled with thoughts and worries which he couldn't banish and which prevented him from getting a good night's sleep.
With a sombre sigh that was born of weariness, pain, and worry, Athos reached for the open bottle before tipping it clumsily in order to fill his glass with wine. His movements, however, were uncoordinated and awkward due to his injuries and fatigue, causing him to spill some of the red liquid on the wooden table. He glared momentarily at the trembling hand that had betrayed him before he placed the bottle down and lifted the glass to his lips, draining it in one go. When he finished, he immediately placed the glass down and reached again for the bottle, repeating the process.
He emptied two more glasses in this manner before he allowed his thoughts to stray towards what had caused him to indulge in his favorite coping mechanism in the first place. D'Artagnan, his protégé, his younger brother in all but blood, was missing, spirited away by a man who hated him for reasons yet unknown to the Gascon's three friends. The only faint clue Athos had to his whereabouts was that d'Artagnan's captor had hailed from Gascony, and there was a slim chance that perhaps d'Artagnan was being held prisoner in the same region that was his place of birth.
Not for the first time, Athos chafed at the thought that he was utterly helpless in the face of d'Artagnan's capture. The young Gascon evidently knew his captor, his reactions during the fight making that abundantly clear, but Athos was still ignorant as to the circumstances that had led to d'Artagnan making such an enemy. The man evidently was a personage from d'Artagnan's past, but Athos knew so little about the life his protégé had led before his commission that it was a hopeless task to endeavor to identify the man based on the limited information he possessed.
In addition to that, the man, whoever he was, had hidden his tracks well when he had fled in the middle of the scuffle with a concussed d'Artagnan, leaving his goons to continue the fight without him. By the time Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had dealt with the lot, d'Artagnan was already long gone without a clue as to the path his kidnapper had taken. Paris was, after all, a labyrinth of myriad streets and alleyways, and the late hour had meant that no one had been around to witness the Gascon's kidnapping and perhaps give the Inseparables some clues. D'Artagnan and his abductor had vanished like ghosts.
Athos poured himself another glass of wine, his thoughts going around in frenzied circles like a pack of frightened rats. The situation was desperate: there was no way of telling where d'Artagnan was being kept, and the more time slipped away, the more likely it was that d'Artganan was dead and gone. And yet, all Athos could do was hide in his living quarters and drink himself into oblivion while nursing a wounded shoulder and a troubled mind.
It was enough to drive one mad, it was.
"Does it help?"
He startled slightly, the wine sloshing about inside the glass but thankfully not spilling. Surprised, he looked up, his eyes meeting the tired brown gaze of Aramis, who was standing in the doorway.
The marksman looked terrible, to put it bluntly, dark circles underneath his eyes and fatigue in his posture. He was swaying visibly, a combination of blood-loss, pain, and weariness serving to unbalance the normally graceful Musketeer, and Athos felt relieved when Aramis finally stumbled towards the table and slumped down in the chair across from him. He doubted he would be able to pick up Aramis' unconscious form from the floor if the need so arose.
"Does what help?" he asked curiously, sipping at his wine. "And I was under the impression that both Porthos and the garrison's physician ordered you to bed?"
"What they don't know won't hurt them," the marksman shrugged. "And I was referring to the wine. Does it help?"
Athos considered the question, swirling the ruby liquid in the glass as he did so. "...Not as well as it used to."
Aramis nodded in understanding. "How's your shoulder?"
"The same as it was last time you asked, Aramis, as well as the time before that. Which is to say, painful but healing," Athos took another sip of wine. "You do realize that asking more often won't make it heal faster, don't you?"
Aramis blushed faintly. "You cannot blame me for worrying, Athos. There are still so many things which could go wrong...the wound could get infected, or you might tear your stitches-"
"Neither of which show any indication of happening, Aramis," he frowned slightly as he observed that Aramis was clearly anxious and ill at ease, evidently still concerned for the health of his friends. "I am beginning to understand why Porthos was so adamant to get you to sleep. Your worry is evidently preventing you from remaining calm and resting."
Aramis rolled his eyes. "You know as well as I do that Porthos exaggerates sometimes, Athos. I wasn't tired, and I certainly wasn't deprived of sleep."
"If you weren't tired, than why did you yield so quickly to his demands?"
Aramis scoffed. "As if I had any choice in the matter. He threatened to punch me, Athos. I can stand many things, but being punched in the face is not one of them."
"Oh?" Athos lifted one eyebrow, a glimmer of something approaching humor in his gaze. "Are you so afraid that the unsightly bruises will spoil your chances with the ladies?"
Aramis' expression could be described as the pictorial definition of 'faux scandalized'. "How dare you."
Athos smiled faintly, but as he thoughts returned to d'Artagnan, the smile quickly vanished from his face, to be replaced by a look of sorrow and worry. With a sigh he reached for the half-filled bottle and refilled his glass.
Sensing the change in mood and doubtless aware of what was troubling Athos so, Aramis allowed his own smile to fade, the marksman biting his lower lip as he considered what to do next. In the end, he settled for reaching across the table to grasp Athos' arm in what was meant to be a reassuring gesture. "We'll get him back, Athos, I swear it. D'Artagnan is too restless to be trapped in one place for long. You saw yourself how much of a handful he was when he injured his leg, I thought we'd have to nail him to his bed to keep him from doing something foolish that would only injure him further."
Athos smiled weakly at the memory, even as he shook his head. "I can only pray that you are correct, Aramis."
Aramis smirked. "My dear Athos, when am I not correct?"
"I can think of a few occasions. How about the time when you convinced Porthos that a woman was madly in love with him, and he nearly got stabbed by her jealous husband when he attempted to make advances?"
Aramis frowned. "...I will admit that that was not one of my better ideas."
Athos languidly sipped at his wine. "That is an understatement."
Aramis' scowl deepened, prompting a small smile from Athos. With a huff, the medic rolled his eyes. "Fine, perhaps I am not always correct. But trust me in this, Athos: it is too early to despair. There is still hope that d'Artagnan is alive and well. We must remain strong so we can continue the search for our brother."
Athos nodded in agreement, feeling more hopeful in spite of himself. "So we shall, Aramis, so we shall."
A/N: Abrupt ending, I know, but this was difficult as hell to write and it's more of an experimental one-shot than anything else, so...
...Okay, I'll come clean and say that I have no clue what I'm doing. I'm sorry. Hopefully I'll improve as I write more.
Au revoir.