I decided to take on these "Whumptober" prompts as a writing challenge. Let's see if I'll manage 31 prompts in 31 days!
I. Stabbed.
The feel of the blade is nothing like he'd expect.
It is cold and hard and foreign within his flesh, an exceedingly uncomfortable pressure more than anything else. A major inconvenience, really. He's fine. Considering, it's nothing as bad as he'd have expected.
That is, until he begins to feel an odd pressure mounting in his head, as if two hands are pressing from both sides with steadily increasing force, and a heavy weight begins to descend upon his chest, gradually slowing his heart's wild beats. It is strange, but not painful; he's being sucked into a void that's whirling around the dagger buried hilt-deep, while a black fog begins to invade his vision from the edges, solidifying quickly and pushing him down. He's falling, and it is peaceful -
"d'Artagnan!"
A slap jerks him awake and he opens his eyes with a gasp.
Hurried hands are patting him down, searching for injuries. Finding none, other than the obvious, they stop. A heat is beginning to gather on his skin around the blade; he reaches a hand to explore it, mindless, like a curious child, but something stops him abruptly and pushes his hand back down. Finally, he looks up.
"Lie still."
"Athos?"
Breathy and confused, he tries to focus.
"Yes. Stay still." The low, clipped tone is more grounding than the hand on his other shoulder. A whimper escapes him nevertheless, as if coming from someone else. Athos is doing things beside him, around him, upon him, but he's not following - until he speaks again, with a note of urgency this time.
"I am going to pull this out, and I am going to press down on the wound, hard. It is going to hurt, but you won't bleed to death. Understood?"
"Hm-"
"d'Artagnan, do you understand?" The urgency is compounded with worry, and though he certainly does not understand, d'Artagnan nods. The fingers on his shoulder contract briefly before disappearing and that trusted voice orders, "Brace yourself." But he's given no time before the material within him shifts and a cry rips free from his throat – a cry like never before - but the pain is so sharp, so sharp-
"Hang on now."
It is moving. It is cutting, sliding slick through muscle and sinew and his own flesh tightening around the blade, reluctant to let go. His heart is roaring like a wild drum beating to senseless bloodlust and there's something primal, violent and bloody and almost animal-like -
"It's done. It's done," Athos breathes over him, half-relieved, half-soothing. The Gascon's head lolls to the side as his eyes fall close.
The pressure is still there.
As if in a dream he feels himself being moved, dragged until he's propped on something hard, easing the ache in his back and neck. Constant movement around him, assuring, calm and secure; the heat and the orange tint of a fire, and that presence near him, trusted. Time is lost until he's being roused again.
Athos's hand on his cheek is kind, patting gently to bring him around. d'Artagnan opens his eyes and suddenly, like magic, everything is clear again, back in focus.
"There you are. Sit tight. I need to take care of that wound."
"How'b-" he winces, "how bad is it?"
"How badly does it hurt?"
"...What does that have to do with it?" he mumbles.
"Not being Aramis, that is how you and I can gauge how bad a wound is," Athos muses. It sounds like he's being completely serious. d'Artagnan frowns, looking at him.
In the faint glimmer from the fire, there is a twitch on Athos's lips as he studiously keeps his head down, threading the needle.
Puzzlement lasts for a moment, and d'Artagnan lowers his head back, and laughs.