Because I always feel to justify myself, or preempt what some readers may question: The change in tense from the first section to the next is deliberate.
Disclaimer: Just having fun.
Warnings: Spoilers for the series even though this is AU, and mild language.
Rubin's Vase
The exercise – labeled Advanced Tactical Training with Emphasized Proficiencies in Wilderness Survival on top of an official format form somewhere – was supposed to be a wash. Challenging, but an excuse. An excuse for Aramis to spend a week doing things he was already good at while playing at things he already loved to do. All in the company of 21 other guys Athos recognized to be more or less afflicted with the same adrenaline-laced mindset. And as a bonus, all without the actual threat of violence.
A training exercise.
The first thin and crackly mayday call was thought to be a joke by the team working communications relay. And the second, while taken more seriously, was believed to be part of the mockup.
By the time any of the signals found hope for being triangulated, the drop off had already occurred. Nothing more emerged from the relay. Not the emergency beacon. Not even static.
In a gravel-strewn voice, Porthos pressed their position over the phone, but Treville was a wall. "You're too damn far away and too damn close to it all at once," he said. "Stay put. That's an order. I'll tell you both when we have more."
For all Athos stood stalwart in deference to Treville's commands, he deliberated at that. They are The Inseparables. A label that had untraceably sprouted into existence and hadn't seemed likely to ever go away. And yet here they were. Separated.
Porthos knocked his fist into the table and then straightened, scrubbing knuckles through his hair.
Silence and waiting followed after.
And then, too soon for everyone, the aerial images.
Athos is prepared for devastation. He is prepared for grief—for the deeper insides of a bottle and an existence stumbling in numbness. He drags consolation and bitterness out of the fact that this type of loss, at least, is familiar. He knows what it is to lose a favored brother.
It is as if the universe has chosen to make him an expert at it.
Vaguely, he wonders what he'll do with Porthos. More vaguely, he wonders what Porthos will do with him.
And then the call, ringing in just before the fourth watch of night, thin and thready with a hope that Athos doesn't recognize. "Athos," Treville says quietly. "They've just confirmed. The survivor. It's Aramis."
For a long time there is a blank and stony silence.
Devastation, Athos knows. But mercy. Mercy is foreign.
He has no idea what to do with it.
The updates are almost harder to take after that.
Was he injured? Is he safe? Where is he? Where is he being taken?
The answers are nonexistent and the words that get shuffled around their questions like smoke and mirrors are never long enough.
In the wake of the last bleed of nonexistent information, Athos sits in the dim silence of the long-tabled tactical room and stares out the window. Outside, the weary gray struggle of morning light stares back at him. Sitting perfectly still, he presses his palms to the tabletop and waits.
Waits for his phone to ring just one more time.
Waits for Treville to finally give them what they need to know and tell them a location so they can come. Or to call and tell them it was a mistake.
He breathes out loudly in the empty room, once, but lets his face stay stolid.
There is a blurred pang somewhere in his chest. It bothers him. He thought he'd given up desperation long ago.
tbc