Wrote this a while back and never posted. Thought I might as well. I made a few edits with more recent revelations from the newer episodes:
Characterisation might be well off here but I have less than two hours of footage to work with. Be patient with me please.
D'Artagnan stared at Vadim's body and felt… nothing. He had killed the man that lay before him but there was no flood of remorse, no guilt pooling in his stomach, just a bone-aching weariness that left him shaking and cold.
"Porthos," Athos called quietly, eyes staying fixed on D'Artagnan. "Go and tell Treville what's happened here." The musketeer left without a word.
"D'Artagnan, you're shaking," Aramis pointed out gently, reaching out a hand to steady the younger man. His shoulder felt thin and frail beneath his palm.
In truth, the young man's head was pounding harshly as the light stabbed into his eyes with punishing force, and his wrists were badly cut up and sprained from where he had pulled free of his bindings. The adrenaline that had spared him thus far was running out it would seem.
He opened his mouth to tell them he was fine but that was the moment that his brain decided that it was going to try to push his eyeballs out of his skull. Aramis leapt forward and caught him before he could land face down in the mud, taking his weight easily.
"Easy there," he muttered.
"What's wrong with him? Is he injured?" Athos tried to keep the concern out of his voice. The revelation that D'Artagnan wasn't dead had blindsided him enough that he hadn't thought to check what kind of shape he was in. There was some blood on his face but apart from that he looked alright.
"I'm…okay," he breathed softly, eyes fluttering closed as he sagged against Aramis.
"Yeah, you look it," he remarked casually, stepping around Vadim's body to help bear the weight. "Just relax, you're safe now. I thought we might have lost you there for a moment."
"For a while I thought so too," D'Artagnan admitted, blinking owlishly in the too-bright light.
"Are you injured?" Aramis' sure hands were working over his skull, feeling gently along the gash just above his hairline and reassuring himself that there was no fracture. "It looks like you've got a concussion."
"Err, my wrists," he muttered quietly, his head swimming once more. As gentle as Aramis was being, it still hurt to be poked and prodded when his whole body felt like a giant bruise. "Ribs too." He remembered being tossed through the air by the explosion and having the wind knocked out of him really hadn't been a pleasant experience. But then, it was better than being blown to bits.
"Wait, what was that?" Athos sounded distant even though he was right beside D'Artagnan. His face was pale and twisted with anxiety that it took a minute to comprehend; he hadn't realised he'd been speaking aloud. "What do you mean 'blown to bits?'"
"Vadim. Gunpowder," D'Artagnan supplied blearily, letting the two musketeers flanking him take the remainder of his weight as all the strength went out of him, leaving him trembling. He was too far gone to feel any shame at the show of helplessness.
"He… He tried to blow you up?" Athos was a strange bled of terror and rage, staring at the younger man in astounded surprise.
Aramis sucked in a sharp breath, rotating D'Artagnan's wrists carefully to assess the damage. "These are rope burns," he pointed out with faint horror. "Did you pull yourself free?"
"Didn't have much time," he mumbled in response. He was aware that it was his duty to fill them in on what had happened on the mission but right now all he really wanted to do was pass out for a week or so, until everything had stopped aching quite so much. If only they would stop asking questions.
He could feel his body growing heavier around him and his mind scattered in every direction, focusing only momentarily on nearby sounds that filtered to him as if through water. Athos might have been speaking again but at this point, D'Artagnan couldn't bring himself to care.
D'Artagnan didn't really remember much after that, blinking in and out of consciousness for the next few hours and catching only glimpses of people around him, snippets of conversations and questions, endless questions.
By the time he woke up properly the sun had set and he'd been moved to one of the musketeer dormitories. The bed beneath him was lumpy and uncomfortable but the sheets smelled clean and the room was warm and well lit, and there was a strange scent of lavender filling his nostrils. He blinked and looked around.
Constance was sat beside him, reading from a worn book that he recognised from the shelves in her house and just behind her lingered Athos, Porthos and Aramis who were playing an unfamiliar card game. D'Artagnan cleared his throat and was rewarded by four heads all snapping up to stare at him in surprise.
The musketeers all brightened slightly at the sight of him but Constance's face clouded like a storm, the book snapping shut and the full force of her glare levelling at him. He gulped.
"I told you that this was likely to get you killed but you didn't listen. And then I have a messenger turning up on my doorstep to tell me that my lodger has been injured and that if I wish to see him I should come to the garrison with all haste. I race here and find you unconscious, bleeding and for what? So that you can be a soldier? I thought that you had some sense but I can see that I've been labouring under a misapprehension."
D'Artagnan let her rant with a heavy heart, aware that she was just worried and letting off steam. He still felt guilt rising in his chest for upsetting her. She was his friend. Friends weren't supposed to hurt each other like this, were they?
He cut her off eventually, with a heartfelt: "Constance, I'm sorry." She blinked in surprise and her eyes glistened with tears that she wouldn't let fall as she hugged him fiercely and left with some excuse.
When the door had fallen shut behind her, the others emerged from the corner where they had been hiding from her wrath. "Have I ever mentioned how attractive I find such spirit in a woman," Aramis commented mildly.
"She's married," D'Artagnan reminded him for what felt like the thousandth time, rolling his eyes with faux irritation.
"You say that as though to dissuade me."
Athos jumped in before the conversation could continue. "How are you feeling?"
"Like a horse trampled me; but then I'm still alive so I really don't feel like complaining about it. What happened after I passed out?"
"Treville spread the word about what happened – you're no longer a wanted man. The king was happy, the queen thanked us, Madame Bonacieux shouted… It was all terribly exciting," Aramis informed him, grinning.
D'Artagnan allowed a rueful smirk to curve his lips. "A happy ending then?"
"Something like that," Porthos admitted, clapping him on the shoulder with a deep laugh.
Athos was the one who turned serious first, fixing D'Artagnan with a steady, probing look. "You need to tell us what happened in the tunnels; I, for one, would like to know quite how you injured your wrists in such a strange way." His tone of voice made it clear that he already had his own ideas but the young man acquiesced with a nod, taking a deep breath and letting his story flow forth.
It didn't take long to tell – he'd spent a considerable amount of the time unconscious and so there were chunks that he couldn't explain but he told them what he could. With every word, the faces of his companions grew more and more sombre.
When he'd finished there was a long silence that unsettled D'Artagnan – he was suddenly terrified that he'd done something wrong, that they were about to turn around and tell him that he'd failed, that he could no longer work with them.
"That… That should never have happened to you," Athos said eventually and D'Artagnan felt his heart seize in his chest for a terrible moment. "We should have gotten to you sooner. Please, accept my apologies."
"And mine," Porthos chipped in, dark skin pale with stress.
"And mine as well. It is unlike us to fail a friend so thoroughly," Aramis added.
D'Artagnan stared at them all in disbelief. "I'm sorry; I think I need some clarification. What are you apologising for?"
"For not getting you out of there," Porthos said, as though it were obvious. "We shouldn't have left you to Vadim's mercy like that and we can only assure you that we will never let it happen again."
When he finally understood what was being said, D'Artagnan laughed, long and hard, eyes tearing up as his chest protested the movement. "You're being idiots," he informed them, still grinning madly at their confusion. He sobered slightly in order to convey his sincerity. "You don't have to apologise for anything. I knew the risks going in and you did everything you could to keep me safe. Vadim was smarter than we expected but we still won – we're alive and he isn't. Let's just take it as that and nothing else."
There was another pause as they considered this before Aramis offered up a hopeful: "Does that mean we're not buying you apology drinks at the pub later?"
D'Artagnan laughed again. "Well that, I wouldn't say no to."