A friend in need

...is a friend indeed. But when Porthos attacks Aramis out of sheer panic and fear for his friend's life, nobody can blame Aramis for wondering if Porthos was indeed a friend or foe in this situation.

Episode tag 2x09, minutes 9-10.

Although he did his best to appear nonchalant, Aramis was quite ready to keel over and die at the very moment. He had never imagined telling them like this, definitely not under those circumstances and for sure not with Athos speaking in such a care-free manner right behind him.

Really, the air itself was sticking to his lungs and making him unable to breathe properly in the overstuffed room.

"The dauphin might be my son." No, that wasn't right, Aramis had no doubt about it. "Is, my son."

There, it was out in the open now.

He could breathe.

The thought hadn't even fully passed through his mind before there were huge hands on his lapels, lifting him effortlessly from the floor and pinning him against the stone pillar behind him, effectively knocking out what little air was still in his lungs.

Porthos, the hands definitely belonged to Porthos.

Aramis knew that such a news would spur a violent reaction from his closest friend, but he had never imagined the hands that were suddenly on his throat, putting pressure where pressure is never supposed to be.

"Are you completely crazy? Have you really no control over yourself? God's sake Aramis, this is the Queen we're talkin' about!" Porthos' words echoed in his ears, jumping within his skull before they were lost in the chaos his body was creating in an attempt to draw in air.

"P'thos." His attempt to say his friend's name was feeble, and Aramis grimaced as he heard the choked utter that had passed through his lips. Porthos apparently hadn't heard it because his hands only tightened, and now black splotches were appearing in his vision, blocking out his brothers' attempt to pry the might bear off of him.

"No Aramis, have you any idea of what you've done? You've damned us all! What if he hangs you eh? Did you even think of us before takin' her to bed?!" The rage was punctuated by slams against the pillar behind him, but Aramis barely felt them. He couldn't feel anything really, not even the fabric of Porthos' gloves, which he knew he was still clinging to.

The colourful office was blurring into something that resembled a painter's palette, and Aramis doubted that he'd ever wake up if he lost consciousness. He just hoped that Porthos would not lose himself in self-hate and grief, but would hold on to his rage so he'd never wallow in the misery of having murdered a person who had had his back through thick and thin.

But he knew that Porthos wasn't like that.

He was even more forgiving than Aramis at times.

His vision was getting worse, and the blood thumping in his brain made it hard for him to hear Porthos' words anymore, or anyone else's. His heart was on overdrive, attempting to break through his chest as his lungs cried for even the tiniest wisps of air.

He couldn't take this much longer, not if Porthos was so intent on going over the edge.
"I'm s'rry." He doubted if Porthos had heard the wheezed out word or if anyone had noticed he had spoken at all, but at least he could die with a clear conscience, even if he knew that his guilt would haunt him in the afterlife as well.

Athos watched in mute horror as Aramis' eyes fluttered weakly before he slumped in Porthos' grip, his wheezed out apology hanging heavily in the air above them.

Despite having tried their best, there was no dislodging Porthos when he was so deep in his rage, and they all watched with bated breaths as Porthos suddenly broke out of his trance, terror painting his features when he saw Aramis hanging lifelessly from his hands.

Then, as if some invisible strings had been cut, Porthos released his hands and Aramis fell gracelessly to the floor, limbs askew and neck bent in what seemed to be a horribly uncomfortable position.

His chest was utterly still.

"ARAMIS!" d'Artagnan's cry broke everybody out of their stupor, and Athos was only mildly aware of Treville pushing Porthos back a few paces and keeping a hand on his broad chest, an effective way of keeping the bear in check.

"Lie him down properly, we can still revive him." Athos dropped next to Aramis as d'Artagnan positioned himself next to the marksman's head, hands already bracketing his jaw to keep his head from lolling on the wooden floorboards.

The dust had been unsettled by their commotion.

It was eerie to see him so still.

Athos attempted to shut out his emotions as he thumped on Aramis' chest. The marksman had to draw breath again. He had to be there to protect the dauphin -his son- now more than ever, even if the others weren't willing to show their support. Above everything, Athos knew that if Aramis never woke up again, Porthos wouldn't live with himself, and their little group would disband in less than a week.

His thoughts were cut off when Aramis' lungs heaved underneath his hands and d'Artagnan promptly propped the Spaniard up while he coughed; ugly, dry coughs that made everyone share a wince as tears dropped down Aramis' cheeks without his knowledge.

Athos cradled the marksman in his arms, rubbing soft circles against his back as Aramis struggled to breathe. His eyes were still closed. Athos didn't dare to let go, worried that the second he would Aramis would fall to the floor again, completely unable to hold his own weight. They were all quiet as the wheezes slowly died down, allowing the marksman to take deeper breaths even if they hitched in his abused throat. His face was drawn but gaining a bit of colour again, washing out the deadly paleness that had characterized his untimely death.

D'Artagnan suddenly appeared again -when had he left?- with a glass of water in his hands, which he gently tipped inside of Aramis' mouth so that the marksman could drink without spilling. Aramis didn't shift, but they saw his Adam's apple bob as he carefully swallowed, a wince colouring his features as he turned his face into Athos' jacket in an unspoken signal to refuse the drink.

Athos didn't say anything, just brought up a hand to pass through Aramis' hair in an attempt to comfort as the marksman shuddered, still refusing to open his eyes.

"Aramis?" Porthos' voice was small, but his hand still dwarfed Aramis' knee as the musketeer unconsciously touched his brother.

It was a wrong thing to do.

Aramis went from deadly still to a frenzy of movement as he threw Athos off with surprising strength and scampered backwards, away from Porthos' guilty look and near the table in the room. Athos stared in dismay as Aramis' breathing became shallow again, the Spaniard's chest rising and falling repeatedly as Porthos inched back, horror etched onto his features.

"Aramis, it's okay. Porthos isn't going to hurt you." Athos slowly made his way towards the marksman, his hands up in the universal sign of surrender. However, Aramis didn't seem to mind his presence, only Porthos'.

"Not hurt me?" The croak that left Aramis' lips induced a grimace around the room. "Athos, he just tried to kill me. Oh wait, he actually succeeded at killing me! I wouldn't be here if it weren't... if it weren't... How am I here? Oh God, I actually died. I actually stopped breathing didn't I? It never crossed my mind that the King would not kill me, but neither did the thought that my own friends, my brothers, will." Aramis' breathing hitched and Athos inhaled deeply, marvelling at the myriad of emotions that were flitting on the marksman's face. Despite the numerous amount of them, fear and hurt were so prominent that Athos felt his heart ache.

"Aramis, I'm sorry, I really am-" Porthos' voice was broken, but even a deaf person could hear the sincere apologetic tone and the self-hate that weighed down the thick voice. Athos would not be surprised if a blind man could witness the guilt that seemed too heavy for the strongest man in the regiment to carry.

"Well, sorry will not magically fix things this time Porthos. Sorry will not just..." Aramis paused to inhale, and Athos noticed that the panic induced adrenaline was fading fast. "Sorry won't erase what happened." The marksman broke out in a coughing fit that seemed to rip through his chest and take away the last traces of his voice. Athos unconsciously moved towards his brother, wrapping an arm around his back to support his quaking frame. He never expected Aramis to shrug him off. "I need to get out of here. I need some space, somewhere away from him." Now that the adrenaline rush was gone, Athos could see the pure terror on Aramis' face as the panic hit him. However, that didn't stop Aramis from attempting to stand up.

He managed that.
He didn't quite manage the steps needed to get out.

Porthos, who knew that Aramis would not have the strength to walk, promptly caught the barely conscious musketeer before he took another bruising fall. However, Aramis managed to elbow his way out of the grip, only to end up in Athos' arms once again, who eased him to the floor and held him against his chest before turning to the other three still in the room.

"Treville, get Porthos out of here. D'Artagnan, ready that cot."

Athos didn't wait to see if his orders would be carried out. He simply gathered the marksman in his arms again, reinforcing his strength when Aramis tried to wiggle out of his grip.

"No Aramis, listen to me. You have got to slow down your breathing or you're going to have a panic attack." Athos shook the Spaniard for good measure before settling him against his chest, purposefully making his breaths larger and deeper so that Aramis could copy the pattern. It took a bit of time, and more than a few hitches and panicked mutters about not being able to breathe, before the marksman was relaxed against his chest, breaths deep and even.

"He's passed out. Should I call a physician?" D'Artagnan crouched next to Aramis' feet, and the two of them carefully carried him to the cot in the corner.
"No, he'll be fine. We just have to make sure he remains breathing. Porthos didn't put much pressure, Aramis was already winded." Athos gently removed Aramis' sash, belts, and jacket before tucking him under the blankets.
"Porthos and Treville?" D'Artagnan was clearly shook by what had happened.
"Let them in, if they want to. Most likely Porthos has already left." Athos settled in the chair next to the bed, one hand encompassing Aramis' own.

Treville came in, Porthos didn't.

The garrison was his home, but the streets were his go-to place when his home caused too much distress. Despite his large bulk, Porthos slipped around the familiar corners with practised ease and the stealth of a cat until he arrived near the court of miracles.

He often did this, especially when he questioned his worth at the garrison.
Particularly when someone had died by his hands.
And specifically when he wondered if he had really escaped the tag of being a 'monster' due to his strength.

He was thankful for his beastly strength. It had allowed him to escape alive and unscathed from many feuds, especially when he was still growing up and getting used to the Court of Miracles. It had been Flea's salvation on a number of days as well, particularly when people did not get the hint that she was not into sex with anybody who was willing.

However, there were days when he hated it with a passion. There were days when he wished above all else that he was not as strong as he was; when he yearned to feel the physical difficulty that came with breaking an enemy's neck. For him, especially in the rush of the battle, it was like breaking a slightly thick twig.

Then there were other days when he'd give anything to not be as muscled as he was, to be lighter so that others could stop him from doing something that he'd regret.

Especially if that thing was murdering his best friend of more than five years simply because he was worried and that worry was transformed into rage.

He had killed Aramis.

He had begged Aramis many times not to die, and then he had done the deed himself.

He could see Aramis in his mind's eye now, scrambling at Porthos' gloves for some purchase as he choked, desperate for a wisp of air as his eyes bulged and his tongue lulled and the veins started protruding one by one...

Porthos shook his head, trying to dispel the image from his mind. It didn't work. It remained there, just at the edge of his thoughts, murky but forever present. He doubted if he'd ever have the guts to look Aramis in the eyes again.

That being said, would Aramis ever feel safe with him again?
Was their camaraderie, which had taken many hardships to be built, shatter in one day?

Of course, Aramis would still have Athos and D'Artagnan and Treville.
Porthos would be the one excluded.

They had all promised Aramis to never leave him like Marsac did, but was this just the same? Was he leaving Aramis, his home, their friendship, all behind by this act?
Would he even be allowed back at the garrison?

Of course you'd be allowed in, if only to pack your things before you leave.

The treacherous part of his mind spoke up, igniting the dark thoughts that had been residing in the shadows. Undoubtedly, Aramis would not feel comfortable with Porthos again, not after being killed by the same hands that had carried his unconscious or sleeping frame many times before. Not after having looked into his former best friend's eyes and saw nothing but intent of murder.

Not after being betrayed by a best friend yet again.

Not after reaching out for an ounce of support and receiving nothing but attacks in return - both literally and figuratively.

Porthos needed to get drunk.

No, you need to be next to Aramis.

His mind spoke up yet again, stroking his stubborn side. He wouldn't leave without making sure that Aramis would recover, and not before saying his apologies when the marksman was coherent.

His feet led the way back even if his mind continued to race. How would Athos and D'Artagnan react? And Treville? Would they welcome him? Would he ever feel as comfortable as he once did? Would they treat him just as they should treat a black man? Like the beast he was?

Your colour does not define your character, you are not a beast, you're the cuddliest man I have ever met. Don't you ever dare to leave without talking to me first, you hear?

Aramis' voice suddenly popped up in his subconscious and Porthos blinked owlishly at the words. They had been uttered many years ago, back when he and Aramis were still getting acquainted with one another, but they were still as reassuring as they had been on that day.

He needed to talk to Aramis, he had to. Then maybe the God that his best friend swore by would pave his way for him and help him decide.

"I thought you'd be gone longer than two hours." Athos' tone was dry, but welcoming all the same.
"He hasn't shifted, just slept." D'Artagnan spoke up, a small smile gracing his features as he nodded at the bigger man.
"How are you?" Treville got straight to the point, raising an eyebrow when Porthos shrugged in reply.
"I'm definitely better than him." He inclined his head towards the prone figure on the bed, and sucked in a breath when he saw the angry marks around Aramis' throat.

"He's still breathing and his airway is miraculously not swollen. He'll be fine, just bruised and hoarse for a while. Nothing a scarf won't hide and honey won't fix." Athos' face was a blank slate, but Porthos could see hints of his worry and compassion behind the mask.

"Of course, he's going to need somebody to speak for him, and who else can understand him through a single look?" D'Artagnan's lips curled into a sly smirk, and Porthos shook his head.
"He's still going to accept you Porthos, even if he might need some time to get over it. He understands where your rage came from. You were worried that he'd be hanged, were you not?" Athos rose a knowledgeable eyebrow, as if daring the other man to contradict his statement.
"I already had to live without him once. I cannot do it again, Athos." Porthos choked out as he collapsed in a nearby, vacant chair.
"Well, choking him was probably not the best way to go about that." D'Artagnan uttered before realizing what he had said as Porthos paled even more.

"Well, he is right. That being said, you might want to give Aramis some space. It's normal for him to not trust you or be jumpy around you until he realizes you're not another foe, and that you're not going to walk out of his life because of this." Treville spoke up from his space next to Aramis' feet, tired eyes burning holes in Porthos' own.

"I wouldn't blame him if he thinks I am his foe. If he cannot trust me again, I'll leave the garrison, it would be better that way."Porthos sighed, trying once again to picture life on the streets after having been protected by the musketeers for so long.

"And what would leaving solve?" Athos' tone was sharper than a dagger.

"Guys, he's waking up." True to D'Artagnan's word, Aramis' eyes were slowly fluttering open, confused orbs trekking slowly around the room before focusing on Athos; who had sat next to the marksman on the bed and had one hand on Aramis' chest.

"'Thos?" The words were slurred and rough, and Porthos winced as Aramis broke out in lung-wrecking coughs that left him wheezing at the end, sipping at the glass of honey-tea that D'Artagnan was holding to his mouth. His hand was shaking too much to hold it himself.

"Calm down 'Mis, we're here." Athos placed his open palm on the marksman's chest, and Porthos felt a guilty pleasure at seeing it rise and fall with Aramis' breaths.
"Porthos left?" Aramis' eyes roamed around the room, failing to see the bulky frame behind Treville as the others blocked his line of vision.
"Still here." D'Artagnan inclined his head and Treville shifted, revealing the dark skinned man hanging at the edge of the bed.
"Good." And he promptly passed out again.

Porthos was staring at Aramis' moving chest as if in a trance, never shifting from his seated position on the tipped-back chair. An hour had passed since Aramis woke up, and Athos had not yet managed to make Porthos eat something, only sip at a glass of water that was refilled only twice so far.

The others were scattered around the room, all lost in their own thoughts but highly attentive to Aramis' prone frame. However, no one but Porthos moved when Aramis started coming around once again, his head tossing softly on the pillow before his eyes fluttered open, flickering around the room and resting on each brother before he caught Porthos' gaze and his eyes darkened, a multitude of emotions casting a heavy shadow on his face.

Porthos wisely didn't speak, only grabbed the glass and helped Aramis drink it before the marksman pushed him back to sit up on his own. It was hindered by the dizziness that clearly plagued the Spaniard, but he didn't give up until he was resting against the headboard, breathing heavily. Porthos tried to ignore the subtle way with which Aramis shifted away from him, but Athos was paying attention to just those things.

"Porthos." The one word had the desired effect and Porthos stepped back, trying in vain to disregard Aramis' sigh of relief. "Aramis, you with me?" Athos sat next to Aramis' hip, one hand on the marksman's thigh. "Just nod, it's better for you not to speak for now."

They were all relieved by the assertive nod.

"How are you feeling?" D'Artagnan was totally prepared for the raised eyebrows that he received from Aramis, and quirked his lips in a small smirk in return.

"Like I came back from the world of the dead." The comment was unexpected, especially given how clear Aramis' voice sounded. Athos knew that the marksman was straining his vocal chords though, and was about to reprimand him before Porthos spoke.

"Don't talk like that 'Mis, please." The huge guy's voice was broken, and he gazed at Aramis with the same brokenness in his eyes.

"Why not, Porthos? Weren't you the one who sent me there with a free pass to immortality? Weren't you the one who didn't even stop to think before you rid me of my soul as quickly as you could simply for keeping a secret from you? A secret which, might I add, was beneficial to keep so you would not be hanged for treason!" Aramis' eyes were aflame by the end of his tirade, and he glared at them all as if they were all responsible for his current situation.

"Aramis, that's enough." Athos spoke, glancing at Treville so as to make sure the older man left the situation in his hands and did not say something that would probably set Aramis off again.

"No, Athos. Why stop now? You lot always blame me, and so do I most of the times, but maybe this time it's not totally my fault. Did you even consider that at all before you saw red?"

"'Mis..."

"No, Porthos, not 'Mis. It never occurred to me that I would be petrified upon seeing your face when I wake up. I would not have believed it even if God himself had sent a prophet down here to tell me that it would happen. I never thought that you of all people would not listen to reason, especially when you know why I sleep around most of the time. Did it even occur to you that I did not instigate this? Because things happened in that convent, things you did not ask about. A dear friend died there, in my arms, because of me! The queen was the only one who noticed that I was distraught and she took me to her rooms and then you know what happened."

The other three were struck speechless as Aramis' voice grew hoarser by the second, his anger quickly fizzling out as his ailing body struggled to catch up to his sudden anger. Although his voice was still low, colour was high in his cheeks and a slight tremor was shaking his limbs even if he did his best to still himself. Nobody was sure if he had put his face in his hands to hide his tears or if it was an attempt to gather his composure. Athos didn't even try to stop him, knowing that Aramis had to get it out of his system some day or the other, and everybody needed to hear what the marksman had to say about the situation.

"I never wanted to put any of you in danger, I never wanted you to die, especially because of my own actions." His voice broke and he drew in a heavy breath, exhaling a shuddering breath and then inhaling again.

Porthos was about to step in before Aramis pinned him down with a vehement stare yet again.

"I'm condemning you all with this knowledge, and as selfish as it sounds, I do not want my brothers' deaths on my conscience." Aramis' voice faded out, his last few words nothing but breathy whimpers in his hands as he ferociously rubbed at his eyes. Although easily the most emotional musketeer out of all of them, he loathed to showcase his feelings so openly even with his most trusted friends. "Rochefort already knows, there is no need for him to find out you know as well. If it comes to that I will go down alone. Promise me you will not endanger your life so recklessly for something that is not worth fighting for." Aramis looked up, looking squarely into Athos' eyes before his gaze shifted to Porthos.

"No." The dark-skinned musketeer crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow when Aramis spluttered.

"Porth-"

"No, Aramis. What would you do if it was D'Artagnan who slept with the queen and had an axe hanging over his neck?" Porthos shifted forward, sitting on the edge of the bed once again.

Everybody ignored the indignant "I would never sleep with the queen!" exclamation that put a shadow of a smile on Aramis' face and the subsequent "You sleep with her lady in waiting instead," that sounded from Treville.

"You know what you'd do? You'd go through hell and turn the world upside down to find a way to save him. You would not let him become an idiotic martyr because you know that we wouldn't function without him, much like we wouldn't function without you. And also, not worth fighting for? Your life has as much worth as ours do 'Mis, don't sell yourself short just because of a low life like Rochefort." Porthos' voice was heavy with poignancy, but his palm was light as it landed on Aramis' shoulder, gently but surely pulling the marksman towards his shoulder as the Spaniard shuddered, his eyes glittering as the other three nodded in mute agreement.

"He's right you know, although you should have refrained from doing it in the first place, we'll still stand with you till the very end, if it comes to that." Athos' voice was soft and warm, blanketing the marksman with the kind words.

"It won't come to that, but yeah, you're not alone in this Aramis. You guys picked me up when I was knee-deep in shit I couldn't handle, it's about time I return the favour." D'Artagnan's comment was like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, and the mood lightened briefly as the youngest shrugged, a hint of a smirk on his lips.

"You are sending me to an early grave Aramis, but I'll see what I can do. It's not like we can go to the past and fix what happened." Treville nodded at his men before promptly leaving the room, easing the door close to give them a little privacy.

Porthos combed back Aramis' hair, shushing gently as he felt tears soak into his chest just above the shaking hands that fisted a section of his shirt. There was no need for words, the brothers just huddled together on the bed, letting the marksman remember their bond through their physical closeness, even if he wouldn't magically recover from what had happened. In fact, Athos felt the marksman tense when he realized that he was efficiently trapped in the middle of their pile, and he was being suffocated once again.

Porthos didn't shift as Aramis' grip gradually weakened until the marksman's hand dropped to his lap, sufficiently conveying that the Spaniard was almost completely passed out or asleep. He gently laid him down, making sure to cushion his head before drawing up a blanket and tucking it around his frame.

They all settled around the bed, making sure to be in physical contact with the marksman in some way or the other while he slept.

There were pressing matters at hand; They had to save their queen and generally sweep up the dirt that Rochefort was unsettling with his meddling, but that could wait.

First, they had to wait for Aramis to wake up.

Second, they had to fix their severed friendship before it got any worse, even if they all knew that nothing could keep the four of them apart, especially in those dire times.

And third, they had to steel themselves for what was probably going to be the biggest sacrifice of their lives.

After all, their motto was still engraved in their bones: one for all, and all for one.

Just how far were they all willing to go for their one?

So guys, hope you enjoyed this [ooc] alternate take on Porthos' reaction upon discovering what Aramis had done! I don't imagine this ever happening, as I said above, it was just an excuse to do some whump.

I am barely posting because I'm busy as hell with college, and this will probably be my last one for a while. Hope I still hear from you =)

I do have more ideas, but yeah, not for now I think.

PS: MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO EVERYBODY :) !

Disclaimer - I do not own the musketeers, never have, never will.

Anyway, leave any possible thoughts below?=)

-Chrisii