"Please, d'Artagnan, do illuminate me- what exactly occurred in the hour you spent at the tavern?" Athos inquired mildly, eyeing the ripped back of d'Artagnan's doublet and the expression of rage written upon his young friend's face.
"Mordioux, Athos! I have already told you!" D'Artagnan replied angrily.
"I'm afraid that your previous explanation was quite overwhelmed by your more colourful choice of language used to describe your assailant."
"He accused me of cheating at cards; which, I might add, I was most certainly not! I play and fight honestly, unlike that cur." With a frown, d'Artagnan sat down upon Athos' bed, trying vainly to catch a glimpse of the torn back of his clothing, through which the slightest glint of blood could be detected against his fair skin. "After telling the man that I would have none of his dishonesty, he had the nerve to attack me from behind as I was turning to leave. If only I knew his name- I guarantee that he would pay!"
"Perhaps, my friend, this is a sign that it does not behoove you to frequent such a lowly establishment. As musketeers, even we must have our standards," Athos remarked somewhat wryly, gifting d'Artagnan with one of his rare smiles.
D'Artagnan's breath caught in his throat, from both his friend's smile, and the kindness of his last remark. To have one such as Athos consider him as an equal in such respects as to refer to him as a fellow musketeer was enough to turn d'Artagnan's lips up in a movement mirroring Athos' own. The eyes of the two met and they held one another's gazes for a moment.
It was Athos who was the first to break contact, lowering his eyes until they were focused on the bedframe instead of on the almost expectant look in the eyes of his companion.
"Would you allow me to examine your back? It does not appear to be that you have received too serious an injury, but nevertheless, I would rest easier being certain that your state of health has not been effected by it," Athos suggested with his usual concern towards his friend's well-being.
D'Artagnan nodded mutely, a flutter of nervousness and expectancy building up from within him. Such a proposal was a typical example of Athos' caring nature towards him, but it was only as of late that it would inspire a reaction of this sort. D'Artagnan forbade himself from letting his mind wander in such places; as a result, it was solely his body that governed this behaviour. At times like this, it even frightened him.
With an almost trembling hand he unbuttoned his doublet and upon removing it, slipped his shirt over his head. He chanced a quick glance up at Athos, who was standing above him, and flushed, thinking only now that he could have simple raised his clothing above his injury instead of removing them entirely. For some reason he felt unusually bare beneath the gaze of Athos, who was staring at him with a look in his eyes that was, to d'Artagnan, utterly unreadable.
"I do not think that it is very severe, Athos," d'Artagnan finally said, twisting the material of his shirt between his hands.
Athos, saying nothing, knelt down next to the bed and leaned in close to d'Artagnan to examine the injury in question.
D'Artagnan could feel Athos' gently probing fingers ghost across his back; his cool hands were a soothing balm against his own feverishly hot skin. A quiet sigh escaped from between his lips as Athos traced a line down his back.
"Ah bon. It does not look too bad- the bleeding has stopped, and it will soon heal over," Athos remarked, resting his hand against d'Artagnan's back and rubbing soft circles there. D'Artagnan fought back the shiver which threatened to run down the length of his body at the feel of Athos' soft touch.
Athos spoke again, and although he could not see him, d'Artagnan could veritable feel Athos' usual melancholy expression settling upon his face. "Yes, in your life I am afraid to say that you shall suffer from far worse in the future."
D'Artagnan shrugged lightly. "I am to be a musketeer, and musketeers must fight. I have accepted the inevitable fact that I shall be injured, perhaps even most gravely."
"And I have not," Athos murmured, soft enough that d'Artagnan felt unsure as to whether or not such a comment was something intended for his ears, or for the heart and mind of Athos alone. However, as at the moment the young Gascon felt himself in a heightened state of emotion, he decided to disregard his earlier thought for the moment.
"Do you worry?" he asked in a small voice, turning on the bed so that he was now facing Athos, who did indeed have a melancholic and rather pensive look on his face. "For me? You truly needn't, you kn-" he remarked, but was cut off rather abruptly by Athos.
"I will, and I do. No father could feel such concern for his son as I do for you, d'Artagnan."
D'Artagnan's breath hitched for a moment, but he pressed on.
"You care for me-" he asked, hoping that Athos would interpret the rawness of his voice as an emotion other than the stabbing pain he felt within his heart "-as a son?"
Athos paused, briefly- an agonizingly long moment to d'Artagnan- before answering, rising to his feet and placing a hand on d'Artagnan's bare shoulder. For the slightest of moments, he relished the feel of the young man's soft skin beneath his before swiftly checking himself and removing his hand.
"I do."
"I- I am honoured that you hold me in such high esteem, and hope that I can continue to prove myself worthy of it in your eyes," said d'Artagnan, attempting to push back his bitterness and put some truth into his statement to Athos.
He was not the only one in the room feeling guilt for letting an untruth slip past his lips.