Once You've Flown Through Glass

by ThaisKerrynSamira

Tag to Through a Glass Darkly S02E06. Directly following the events at the observatory, Aramis' friends come to see the consequences of his tumble through the window. They decide to take care of him. If only he would let them... This is my very first fanfiction. I am probably being overly cautious about the rating. I own nothing you recognise. Let me know what you think.

Once You've Flown Through Glass

Today had gone nowhere near to plan. Porthos sighed. What was supposed to be a simple trip to observe a damnable eclipse had turned into a disaster. It was sad really, since the day had begun with such promise.

Serge had made Porthos' favorite breakfast and, with many of their number out on missions for the crown, he had happily eaten his fill, and then some. Aramis had laughed at his eagerness and then good naturedly scolded him for eating more than he should have. D'Artagnan had joined in with a few, untrue, observations about his eating habits increasing his waistline that had earned him a friendly shove off of the bench at the breakfast table. Athos' smirk had morphed into a full on snort at the boy's misfortune, despite his normally stoic expression. D'Artagnan had tumbled rather gracefully and managed to not face plant even as he laughed. Aramis had broken into a cackle that Porthos had heartily joined in on. Observing from above, Treville had shaken his head in mock exasperation and ordered them to finish their meal and head to the palace for their assigned duty.

Unfortunately, the day's positivity had blipped upon their arrival to observe Milady's presence and inclusion in the day's planned adventure as well as her behavior amongst the ladies by flaunting her new position in court.

Porthos had been disgusted and didn't dare to guess how it had made Athos feel. A glance at his face had said it all and his removal of himself from the guard for the day had clinched it; not pleased. Neither he nor the other two had made even a token protest at their friend's decision.

None of them were pleased with the situation with Milady, Athos obviously the most, but there was nothing that they could do about it. Watching Athos struggle to maintain his normal equilibrium with her presence was almost as much a torture for them as it was for him. His history with the woman would torment anyone.

Being forced to pass sentence on the person you swore to love and spend the rest of your life with would be hard on its own. Doing it because they had murdered your only sibling just made it that much worse. Learning it wasn't over was merely icing on the cake. Porthos knew that failing to save his brother from her clutches was replayed in his friend's mind and heart every time he saw her. The poor man was floundering, trying not to drown in his own darkness while she acted as if she had never even met him unless she saw a moment to rub his nose in their shared past.

Porthos frequently wished he could just kill the woman and put a stop to it. At the same time, he had a feeling that Athos would be just as hurt if she died. He didn't get it, but it wasn't his to ask why just to support his friend however he needed him to and today that had meant letting him remain at the Garrison.

The journey to Marmion's had been uneventful and Porthos had found himself hoping that the drama between Athos and Milady would be the extent of the day's negativity. It wasn't to be so. Porthos hadn't been sure what all the hype was about with this 'eclipse' but the court sure was enamored with it. The king's explanation of how it worked, earlier reenacted in the gardens, hadn't made it sound all that fascinating. That a man would deliberately dedicate his life to studying such a thing baffled the former thief.

The building that the ultra-special observatory was housed within wasn't anything unique from the outside, with the exception of the overly large mirror on the roof, but the inside had been something else. Contraptions of all sorts had populated the space, moving and twirling in myriad directions. The assistants had creeped him out, dressed as they were in pitch black robes and faces tastelessly hidden behind plague masks. It seemed like a bit of unnecessary pageantry for such an event. The man running the show hadn't been any better with his flowery speech and grand gestures.

The eclipse itself had certainly wowed the nobles and from his place on the above verandah Porthos had found himself contemplating whether or not he should reevaluate his opinion on the thing. He hadn't made a decision before everything had gone to hell. While the nobles had their attention focused on the 'Camera Obscura' their hosts struck.

The man, that upon their arrival had introduced himself as Robert, had a blade pressed to the chest of the king before anyone could move. A brief scuffle had ensued. As he had battled the men attempting to take him on, Porthos observed his companions out of the corner of his eye.

As expected, across from him, Aramis had sprung into immediate action, moving like a whirlwind amongst his attackers, fists flying. D'Artagnan had been almost as quick off the mark, sword leaping from his sheath and flashing among those below. Rochefort had even made an admirable bid at fighting back. As for himself, Porthos had given as good as he'd got, better in fact.

With the King's life so directly threatened and Marmion entering the fray by slaying the last Red Guard, they had quickly come to a standstill. A standstill that had morphed into a surrender at Aramis' order. A surrender Porthos had supported but was reluctant to be a part of.

Silence had mostly reigned for a moment as all of the nobles were pressed to sit, forcibly. D'Artagnan was the first to break it by offering to let this coup pass if they were to end it now. A certain gamble since the King had made no such offer in addition to it being an outright lie. Porthos had known that they would not let this go. The King's semi agreement had been met with Marmion's contempt, him seeing right through such an obvious falsehood. Porthos hadn't been surprised; the man was crazy not moronic.

Then Aramis had to go and open his mouth.

Normally such a move wasn't a bad thing; Aramis could be very persuasive when he chose to be. The man had a way of speaking that made you want to do as he suggested. Women were disgustingly susceptible to it, but they weren't alone. Most men were also easily swayed by Aramis and his way with words. Personally, Porthos thought that it was a combination of what he said, how he said it, and the fact that he was the one to say it. For God's sake, Aramis was the sole reason Athos had let down enough of his walls to allow them in. The marksman was a miracle worker when it came to negotiations.

But, even he wasn't infallible.

His insistence that the women and the baby be allowed to go free had not gone well, at all.

An understatement of epic proportions.

Without warning, Marmion had shoved Aramis out of the window.

Backwards.

From three stories up.

He hadn't even had time to protest before he was gone.

Porthos' heart had frozen in his chest even as his voice had him screaming his best friend's name in horror. Nausea roiled in his belly as his body protested the visual by struggling against his captors. Briefly he had broken free of their embrace, fighting forwards to where he had last seen his brother in all but blood vanish beyond his sight. He wasn't sure what he thought getting to the window would have accomplished, but he had attempted it anyway. Vaguely, he'd heard other voices of protest and sounds of a scuffle, but they had seemed far away and unimportant. Aramis was gone and nothing trumped that for Porthos.

Porthos had been orphaned young, left to fend for himself on the unforgiving streets of Paris. He had clanned up fast, meeting Flea and Charon, and hunkered down to do whatever it took to see another day. He had made friends and enemies and a name for himself. He'd developed into an excellent thief and an unbeatable brawler. As he grew older and learned to look at the world through eyes other than that of a child, he had found that he wanted more. Charon and Flea hadn't understood, but had let him go easily enough when an opportunity presented itself that Porthos couldn't pass up.

The infantry of France was nothing overly glamorous, but it had been something he could easily get behind. Earning a living by doing, mostly, honest work that offered the potential for bettering himself had drawn him in. He had been sad to see his friends go, but not as sad as he had thought he would be. Walking away from the only life he had ever known hadn't been all that hard.

Some of the things he had learned as a street urchin hadn't fit into his new life, but many had been more than helpful. He had already been accustomed to harsh conditions, lack of sleep, constantly looking over his shoulder, and fighting. Those had given him a leg up against some of his compatriots who hadn't expected such things. He had stood out fast amongst his peers and for once not because of the color of his skin. It had been nice to be noticed for a positive reason.

He had made new friends among the other soldiers, people he liked who liked him in return, but never ones such as Flea and Charon had been to him. Fighting for King and country and his fellow man was something he was good at, being a soldier. He had easily embraced his newfound calling when Captain Treville of the King's Musketeers had approached him about obtaining a commission into his regiment. Porthos hadn't hesitated to accept.

The Musketeers were supposed to be the elite of the elite and the skills put on display upon his arrival had supported such claims. Their welcome of him had left much to be desired however. Despite his previous service and his own displayed skills, the color of his skin had afforded him no friends. No one had been outright hostile or rude, they'd merely ignored him and never included him in anything of their own volition. Disappointed, Porthos had resigned himself to a solitary existence as a member of their ranks until such a time as he found a new place to be. He refused to be bullied out, but also would not change who and what he was to be included.

Aramis had single handedly changed that.

After returning from a long mission, and reporting to the Captain, he had sauntered over to introduce himself. There had been no hesitation or reluctance, he had simply held out his hand in greeting and tossed out his name with a smile. As soon as names had been exchanged, the man had broken into a slew of questions directed at their newest recruit all at once in a long stream of words.

Porthos had been unsure what to make of this exuberant and loquacious Musketeer who seemed to have no trouble whatsoever speaking to him where the others had been reluctant at best. He'd answered the questions he remembered amongst the barrage when the talkative man had halted to breathe and then tried to take in the random outpouring of information about himself that the man offered up in return. What started out as the fastest, most excitedly paced interrogation he had ever witnessed or been a part of in his life had slowed and shifted into a normal conversation after the initial couple of moments.

Porthos had found himself admitting to growing up a denizen of the Court of Miracles and the Musketeer Aramis hadn't even blinked. They had exchanged strengths and weaknesses and over an hour later Porthos had headed off to mandatory training with a promise of shooting lessons in exchange for some dirty hand to hand fighting tricks. He had walked through the rest of the day in a daze at having had a moment of normalcy as opposed to involuntary solitude.

From that auspicious introduction, Porthos had found a friendship unlike any other he had ever had or even dreamed. Aramis grew so much closer to him in a few weeks than Flea and Charon had ever been to him in all the years they had been together. Aramis was free with his time, free with his knowledge, free with his love, free with his care, and free with his words in a way that Porthos had ever known a person could be. The two had become brothers before either could comprehend the depth of their bond even to themselves. They had clicked, meshed. Aramis became home, family, something Porthos had long ago resigned himself to never being capable of having.

As a result of Aramis' outreach, the other Musketeers had slowly accepted him and eventually even come to respect him.

The hardships of Savoy had tested and strengthened their bond and made room in their lives for an unexpected third, Athos. With Athos, Aramis had spotted a kindred spirit, a lost soul, and latched on to him with a steadfast and immovable stubbornness to keep him. Athos' formidable social walls had slowly crumbled beneath Aramis' determination and just like that their two had become three.

'The Inseparables' they were called by their fellow Musketeers, a moniker Porthos had been happy to wield and Aramis had been amused to learn about. Athos' opinion had been anyone's guess.

For years the three had been and so they thought they would remain, until d'Artagnan. Three became four in a short time and they were content.

Now, however, their four may have just been reduced back to three, a situation Porthos wouldn't allow as long as he drew breath. If he could get away from his current captors to follow through that is. With three men on him and his hands bound, it hadn't been working. It hadn't sounded like it was succeeding down below either.

Marmion's shot fired into the ceiling had brought an abrupt end to the very short rebellion.

Unable to move, Porthos had settled for a quick and dirty death threat aimed at his friend's killer. A threat he would absolutely follow through on the second an opportunity presented itself. A moment that was quickly moved into the future when he was sentenced to being held in the cellar with Rochefort.

It was there, chained, his back to a pillar with their mortal enemy, that Porthos had decided that Aramis couldn't be dead. Not until he saw his brother's body himself. Aramis had God's own luck and a habit of surviving things he shouldn't. Savoy was only one event among many that should have taken the marksman from him. He would not give up hope yet. Until such a time as Aramis' fate could be proven, he had had his own and everyone else's to consider.

Reluctantly, Porthos had forged a temporary alliance with Rochefort to work towards escape and the hooks embedded in the nearby wall, just out of reach, had seemed to be their only potential salvation. Both sides had strained and stretched, but to no avail until Porthos surrendered to the inevitable and allowed his detested fellow prisoner to pull his shoulder out of its socket to make those last few inches. It had hurt like hell just as he had known it would.

This wasn't his first dislocation, but it had been a long while since his last one. That thought had reminded him of his best friend's gentle hands as he had manipulated his then dislocated knee back into place and wrapped it for support. Aramis, who had pestered him to ice it and take it easy so it would heal appropriately. The medic who had spent hours of his time keeping him occupied since he knew that idleness and patience did not come naturally to his friend. The soldier who had physically held him down, after sneakily bringing him to the ground with a move Porthos himself had taught him, when Porthos' frustration had been too much for him to withstand and he had attempted to ignore the marksman's advice. Aramis, his brother, who wasn't here now to fix it.

Porthos had forced himself to mentally shrug such thoughts away. They were not going to help in the now. Instead, he had pestered Rochefort into popping it back in place after fooling their idiot of a guard.

Seemingly moments later, outside of their improvised cell, Porthos had found himself face to face with additional and unexpected allies. Athos and Treville he was more than thrilled to see, Milady less so, but some assistance was certainly better than none. With help at hand, saving those left behind in the observatory was all that had stood between Porthos and learning the truth about Aramis' fate. Or so he had thought.

Two floors up and several dead black robed men later, he'd come upon the greatest bit of news since this whole disaster had begun. His brother Aramis was not only alive, but was, as far as he could tell, pretty much unharmed. He sported a few visible cuts and bruises but moved without pain and grinned easily. Not only that, but he had succeeded at reentering the building and rescuing the Queen, the Dauphin, and Marguerite.

How?

Porthos didn't know, or at the moment, rightly care. The thick weighted knot in his belly that he had been pretending wasn't there, due to his conviction in his friend's continued existence loosened and vanished at the marksman's presence. He'd found himself returning the unabashed grin and taking what felt like his first real breath in hours. The overwhelming relief that had flooded his system had caused his limbs to quake minutely and his eyes to want to tear up. The first he hadn't been really bothered by since he doubted anyone noticed but the second he'd resolutely squashed. Musketeers did not cry during a mission and especially not where others could see them.

The rest of the ordeal had moved fast and been over quick. Once Aramis's non-combatants had been escorted to safety, they had stormed the observatory. They had rescued the King, Constance, and d'Artagnan. Rochefort had executed Marmion and they had all trouped outside to escape the day's hell. Hugs had circulated between the ladies and their majesties and they had all been treated to d'Artagnan and Constance's romantic kiss.

All's well that ends well; except it wasn't true. Four courtiers were dead, the King had been traumatized, Rochefort had found a way to demean the Musketeers again, and there was still the possibility of an attack on the road back to Paris. Porthos though, found that he did not care about any of that; his sole focus and all of his worry was silently directed at Aramis.

In the relative dimness of the old fort, Aramis had appeared almost unharmed, but out in the light of the afternoon sun it was easily apparent that that was not so. What Porthos had mistaken for sweat inside was truly crimson blood caked in his friend's hair. The entire back of his head was matted with it and an unknown amount had trickled down his neck to stain his collar and who knew what else. More cuts and bruises were visible in the better light and the entirety of his person randomly glinted due to all of the glass shards caught in his clothes.

He mounted his horse, Esme, easily enough, but Porthos' ever watchful eyes had caught the man's almost invisible wince. Only Athos and himself would have recognized it as such however and Athos wasn't watching.

When in pain and where others could see, Aramis didn't wince like normal people; he did it with a subtle difference in his eyes, a tiny shift in the tension coupled with a slow controlled blink. Aramis was a master at hiding the ills of his body so much so that the only people who ever caught on were Athos, Treville, Constance, d'Artagnan, and Porthos himself. Constance and d'Artagnan were relatively new to Aramis' ways, and therefore still learning the more subtle signals, and Treville, while more aware, was out of practice due to his station as their Captain. Athos was far better trained what with all of the time and missions they had together, but even he didn't hold a candle to Porthos' ability to read his best friend.

With Aramis it was all silent cues and hard learned body language clues. For all of Aramis' giving nature, he was absolutely stingy when it came to his own wellbeing. Porthos was unsure why that was, but the man had always been so. Broken bones, bleeding wounds, or sick out of his mind Aramis would always remain silent about it. If directly asked he would insist that he was perfectly alright and hold to it until his body failed out from underneath him. He was slightly more honest with his close friends and brothers, but not enough in Porthos'opinion.

Admittedly, they all hid, or tried to hide, their weaknesses but none more diligently than Aramis. Porthos didn't understand how a man that was so open about everything else, and an accomplished medic to boot, could behave that way, but he had long ago reluctantly accepted that about the marksman he called brother and compensated the best he could by memorizing his body's way of telling him what the man himself would not. It was something he was now an expert at and right now his expert opinion was that the object of his attention was not as fine as he was pretending to be.

Internally, Porthos sighed. Any confrontation made with witnesses would not go in his favor and so he resigned himself to riding close and holding his tongue until such a time as Aramis was likely to listen. Porthos had a feeling that that meant in the man's room at the Garrison once the mission was completely over, possibly forcibly cornered by all three of his friends. It wouldn't be the first time.

There was also the possibility that he wouldn't make it quite that far; less than five minutes into their return journey and Aramis had not only failed to utter a single word but was slightly hunched forward in his saddle. A silent Aramis was always a reason for concern. Silence meant that he was worried, sulking, plotting, injured, or occasionally sleeping. The hunched position he had adopted bespoke damaged ribs. Porthos wondered how many more injuries his friend would eventually reveal before the day was out.

Athos, he noticed, had finally taken note of Aramis' posture now that Milady was up ahead and out of sight. The look he shot Porthos from the marksman's other side and slightly ahead let the dark skinned man know that he too was keeping an eye on their friend. D'Artagnan seemed oblivious, but Porthos suspected that that was due to Constance's earlier kiss.

Constance herself was up ahead a ways in the carriage along with their majesties with Treville and the other Musketeers riding nearby and providing protection. It was only the four of them back here and still Aramis kept his silence.

Silence d'Artagnan eventually took notice of and decided to fill by running Athos through what had happened in the observatory prior to the rescue. Porthos listened with half an ear, still focused as he was on Aramis. He watched as their injured friend curled more and more in on himself as the story progressed, knowing that it wasn't the words causing the distress.

He edged closer and closer as he observed the marksman's posture until he could get no nearer without the horses protesting. The fact that the object of his attention didn't seem to notice only made Porthos worry more. Not much normally escaped Aramis' notice, especially after the disaster that was Savoy. Oftentimes, he was actually hyper vigilant, when snow and trees were involved in particular. Hell, the man wouldn't even get beyond mildly tipsy when drinking even within the safety of the Garrison surrounded by his comrades. Anytime Aramis was inattentive was an indicator of an issue. Be it shock, love, or injury; it was always indicative of an underlying problem. This time it was most obviously due to an injury and Porthos was determined to make sure that he was on hand to prevent it from getting worse.

If the man would let him.

A sudden half swallowed gasp from beside him galvanized him into action.

Enough was enough.

"Aramis?" he gently but insistently enquired, reaching out with his left hand towards his ailing friend. "What's the matter?" He intentionally didn't ask if he was okay. The answer would be an automatic 'yes' or 'I'm fine' and they would both know it was a lie.

"N-nothing," the medic stuttered even as his body visibly tensed up even more.

"Liar," Porthos admonished, settling his questing hand onto his friend's shoulder and squeezing gently.

Any thoughts of slowly coaxing the truth from his friend died at the sensation of rather significant trembling travelling up his arm.

"Christ Mis," Porthos cursed, "you're shaking."

He didn't realize that he'd raised his voice until he heard the other two halt in their discourse to wordlessly echo his disbelief.

"'M fi-"

"Don't you even try to lie to me, damn it," Porthos vehemently cut off the expected denial.

He reigned in his horse, Fort, for good measure and Aramis' horse followed suit without prompting from her rider. Athos and d'Artagnan did the same a few paces later and came to a stop a little over a horse's length ahead.

"You got pushed out of a third story window. It's a wonder that you're even alive. Any fool can see the blood in your hair and the way you're sitting on your horse. Don't be insulting. What's wrong?"

There was no immediate answer to his question.

"Aramis," Athos piped up while looking back at the two of them from over his shoulder. His voice was soft but held that universal parent to child scolding tone. Athos might not be father, but if he ever was, he had the tone down pat. Porthos absently suspected that he had picked it up from Treville; he used that specific tone all the time with them.

Beneath his hand, Porthos felt Aramis' muscles release in a silent sigh.

"It's nothing serious," Aramis finally quietly admitted. "And nothing that can be fixed here. Let's just get back."

Porthos met Athos' eyes for a brief moment to determine if the man believed their medic's self-assessment or not. Personally, Porthos felt him to be being truthful even if their ideas of 'serious' differed. Athos' eyes displayed agreement.

"Alright Aramis," Athos capitulated, nodding at him despite the fact that the marksman wasn't looking his way. In fact, Aramis had yet to pull his own eyes from where they were fixed on the neck of his horse. Yet another negative sign.

At Athos' agreement, Aramis made a move to galvanize his mount into motion, but the grip Porthos maintained on his shoulder stopped him before he could do more than tighten his hands on the reigns.

"Porthos?" he queried, finally moving his focus to look over at his friend.

Porthos bit back a curse at the sight of Aramis' face. On top of the myriad cuts and bruises he was pale, in shock pale, and a light sweat had broken out on his forehead. His eyes were mildly unfocussed as if he was having trouble bringing things into normal clarity. Coupled with the constant fine tremors he could still feel coursing through the man, Porthos fully committed to his plan of action. With no further discussion, he released his friend and swung down from his horse.

"Shift forward Mis," he commanded as his feet hit the dirt.

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm going to ride with you. Shift."

"No. Porthos I'm-"

"You are not fine Aramis! You're hurt, shaking, and barely upright. Now move." This stubbornness was really starting to make him angry.

"Please do as he says," d'Artagnan pleaded, speaking for the first time since they had stopped.

Aramis' remaining obstinance seemed to finally vanish under the concern of his friends and he visibly slumped a bit more as a result. He also swayed a little in the saddle as he moved to comply. Porthos shot a steadying hand to his ailing companion's arm to help keep him from overbalancing and toppling to the ground. Impatiently, he waited for Aramis to settle in place and swallow back what he suspected was bile at the shift before mounting up behind him. Mentally, Porthos added nausea to the growing list of his friend's ailments. Probably a concussion.

Aramis' trembling became even more obvious as he pressed up against his friend's back and reached around him to both steady him and pry the reigns from his bruised and bloody fingers. Aramis released them readily enough into Porthos' hands, but maintained his hunched over forwards position. Porthos easily gripped both reigns in his right hand, freeing his left.

"Lean back against me Mis," he cajoled, snaking his now free arm up across his friend's torso and exerting slight pressure against his chest to encourage him to do as asked but careful to not cause pain in case of unseen injuries. "It will relieve some of the pressure on your ribs."

"I'll get blood on you," Aramis protested half-heartedly even as he did as Porthos asked.

"Don't care about that," Porthos reassured him, shifting his grip to run diagonally across Aramis' chest to help ease him back and support his torso. "It'll wash out. Now relax and rest Mis. You know it'll help."

Aramis didn't disagree as he came to rest fully against Porthos' broad front and tipped his head back against his best friend's shoulder. Porthos gently manipulated Aramis' head until it was tucked up against his own neck to provide comfort while riding. He also noted the marksman's closed lids as well as the lessening of general tension in his body at the new position.

"There you go. You just rest and let me do all the work, hmm."

Aramis didn't reply, but Porthos didn't need him to. The release of his well-being fully into Porthos' care said it all; he hurt but trusted his friend to make sure that he was taken care of.

Unasked, d'Artagnan took up Fort's reigns with a small nod and at Athos' signal, they all moved out.

The second the horses started forwards, Porthos felt Aramis' stomach muscles clench and heard his breath catch. The marksman's left hand, still braced against his belly, tightened and his right jumped from limp at his side towards his face. Porthos caught his wrist with his left hand and pinned it between his own palm and the medic's collarbone.

"Breathe through it Mis," he coached softly. "Heaving will only aggravate your ribs."

He took a controlled deep breath of his own as an example knowing that his friend could feel the expansion and contraction of his lungs since they were pressed together. In turn, he felt Aramis' struggle to match him even as he uttered a short sound of misery and pressed his forehead into Porthos' clavicle. He succeeded after three deep breaths and gradually adjusted to the gait of the horse. Porthos breathed a sigh of relief when he felt his charge once again relax.

"That's better," he whispered, mostly to himself.

Absently, he began rubbing small circles with his thumb on the back of the man's captive hand, still pinned by his grasp and the medic's chest. Aramis didn't complain. A few minutes later, Porthos felt his brother lapse either into unconsciousness or sleep, all of the remaining tension draining right out of him.

"Thank God. Took you long enough you stubborn bastard," he exhaled softly, tightening his hold slightly to change it from one of minor restraint and support to one capable of holding the entirety of the limp marksman's weight for the duration of their journey.

"Is he alright?" d'Artagnan asked as soon as he realized what Porthos' comment implied, his voice dripping with concern and eyes fixed on Aramis' lax features.

"He's tough," Porthos said, "I don't think that it's much more than some cuts, bruises, and a concussion. I'm pretty sure his injuries coupled with the day's shock and stress just sunk him as his adrenaline faded. I imagine that with some minor treatment and some decent sleep he'll be fine."

"Good," d'Artagnan declared. "I'm glad. I was so sure that he was dead when he went out that window."

Porthos felt his heart stutter at the reminder of his brother's helpless tumble. It was a fall from a height that he shouldn't have survived, but once again God or fate or luck had smiled down on him and kept him from serious harm. He still wasn't sure exactly how his seemingly doomed friend had lived, let alone walked away. Finding out hadn't been anyone's top priority in light of the circumstances and now Aramis was unable to explain.

The mystery and the mental image of the thankfully avoided consequences of the window incident still churned his stomach and Porthos knew that he would be avoiding dinner upon his return as a result. His normally unimaginative mind's efforts into today would certainly see to that and he doubted that the reality of the medic's survival would erase the nightmares that the sight of his friend's almost demise would bring. Close proximity to the man would be the norm for a while until the fear of him vanishing diminished. For now, he settled for once again tightening his grip on the man basically sitting in his lap for reassurance.

"Me too," he admitted in response to d'Artagnan at a volume no one else could hear, "Me too."

The remainder of the ride back to the city was thankfully uneventful. No bandits attacked and, outside of a few moments of unconscious shifting, Aramis remained blissfully still.

Twice, a rough patch of road had him flinching and squirming uncomfortably with a soft sound of minor distress. Porthos was able to easily soothe it away with a temporary tightening of his hold to convey security.

The only other time the marksman had moved seemed to be due to a restless sleep. His captive arm had jerked in agitation and Porthos had glanced down in time to see his brother's face scrunch up in what he would classify as confusion. The man had then tossed his head to the left with a soundless hitched breath and then brought it back to rest his forehead against the former thief's neck. He felt the muscles in Aramis' back tighten in a manner that suggested a precursor to more serious movement and his legs twitched as if preparing to help.

"Shh Mis," the large Musketeer spoke, tucking the crown of Aramis' head beneath his chin. "Shh. We're almost home. You're alright."

It seemed to be the right thing to do as the marksman immediately settled.

During their trip, d'Artagnan took it upon himself to continue to fill Aramis' usual role of providing non-stop sound. He finished his rundown of the events in the observatory with the madman Marmion that he hadn't previously completed when they had stopped to see to their medic. After that, he attempted to rope Athos into telling them about his day and, while he succeeded, it wasn't nearly as long winded or descriptive as his own diatribe had been and so he found himself spouting off about whatever random thought caught his fancy.

Athos, for his part, spent the trip keeping a weather eye out for threats, rolling his eyes at d'Artagnan's babbling when the lad wasn't looking, and shooting veiled concerned and questioning glances back at Porthos and his precious cargo.

Under such conditions, it seemed to take forever to reach the walls of Paris, but arrive they did, trotting through the main gates at late afternoon.

Initially, Porthos was concerned that they would be expected to complete their original assignment and bypass the Garrison in the interest of escorting the carriage to the palace. A worry that Treville quickly squashed when he silently gave the four leave to return home while the rest of them made sure that the royals were seen to. Truthfully, Porthos thought that he should have expected that, Treville was always aware of the needs of his men, but he had stopped attempting to predict the day's events since his own original thoughts about it had been so far off base.

Athos accepted the unspoken order with a small nod of his head, as per usual. D'Artagnan, however, seemed momentarily torn between seeing to his friend and seeing to his lady. Honestly, Porthos was only half surprised when Aramis won out. Together, and with Porthos and Aramis in the middle, they had headed straight for the Musketeer Garrison.

Porthos exhaled an audible sigh of relief when the familiar gates finally came into view. It was akin to coming within sight of the light at the end of the tunnel, knowing that the end of their current strife was near. In his relief he did not loosen his hold on his wounded companion however. Riding side by side into the courtyard removed some of the tension Porthos hadn't realized he was holding between his shoulder blades. Safe, they were safe.

Not many people were visible when they rode in, only the guard at the gate and one lonely man out in the sun. Quientien, the stable boy, poked his head out at the sound of horses and Porthos spied Serge checking on the new arrivals from his place in the kitchen. There were probably one or two other inhabitants of the Garrison around somewhere, but everyone else would be out on assignment, especially due to the events at the old fort.

Quientien sauntered out to meet them as they came to a halt. D'Artagnan was off his horse, Fidget, before they even came to a complete stop. Athos wasn't far behind him. Porthos didn't even bother to try, just waited for them to come and help him with Aramis.

"He okay?" Quientien asked as he gathered up the reigns of Rodger, Athos' horse.

"He'll be alright Quientien," Athos reassured him without looking his way. "After you're done putting the horses away, please bring Aramis' bags up. We'll be in his room."

"'Course."

"D'Artagnan, we'll need clean water, both hot and cold. Also a large bucket to catch what we pour over his head. Food wouldn't go amiss either."

"I'll see to it." D'Artagnan was off almost before Athos was done speaking.

The swordsman shook his head at the boy's boundless energy before focusing on Porthos. "Is he awake?"

"No. You reckon I should try to rouse him before we go moving about?"

Porthos was loathe to disturb any rest his friend had found, but at the same time he knew how Aramis would feel about being carried when he felt that he could walk himself.

"Go ahead and try, but if he doesn't come awake easily, let him be," Athos ordered.

Porthos nodded and handed the other man Esme's reigns. With his newly freed hand, he lightly squeezed the side of his brother's neck.

"Mis?" he coaxed, voice soft. A muffled groan slipped past Aramis' closed lips and Porthos smiled. "We're home Mis," Porthos told him. "You wanna wake up for me?" Carefully, he ran the pad of his thumb across Aramis' exposed cheekbone.

"Wha-?" the marksman croaked, eyes fluttering open at Porthos' touch.

"Hey there Mis," Porthos greeted him, "you with me?"

"-l-ways," the groggy, mostly unaware man answered automatically. "Wh-?" He broke off to clear his throat roughly.

Porthos didn't need him to finish his question. "We are safe at the Garrison," he informed his blinking companion. "We need to get off the horse now. I'm going to pass you down to Athos. Alright?"

He waited for a response before proceeding. Earlier, the medic's balance hadn't been great and movement had made him nauseous. Porthos wanted the man to be prepared for the coming sensation and he also didn't particularly want to wear any vomit if he could avoid it.

"Athos?" Aramis squinted his eyes in an attempt to bring the world into focus.

"Right here Aramis," Athos told him, reaching up and laying a hand against the confused man's left upper thigh to give him a general direction to focus on.

He tried.

Porthos suspected that what he saw when he rolled his head to the left and away from Porthos' neck was no more distinct than a human shaped blob, but he seemed satisfied enough since he pried his left arm away from his ribs and flopped it towards their leader. Athos obligingly grasped it and steadied him while Porthos helped bring his right leg up over the saddle horn so he could slide down into Athos' waiting embrace. They managed it without any mishaps and Porthos dismounted directly after to help keep Aramis on his feet.

Quientien snagged the untended reigns and directed the four horses towards their stalls.

Aramis rested where his feet had hit the ground, body facing Athos. Both of his forearms were being gripped tightly by the swordsman to bear a good portion of his weight and his head tipped forward to sit on his anchor's shoulder. He made no indication of a desire to move; just stood there taking deliberate controlled breaths.

Athos let him.

For his part, Porthos planted a hand, fingers spread, at the base of his friend's neck and let the warmth of his palm soak into the medic's spine and remind him that he was there.

"How we doing Mis?" Porthos asked after the man's breathing became less erratic.

"And don't say 'fine'," Athos added, quiet but stern.

Aramis huffed. "Dizzy," he finally admitted after a moment of silence. "Dizzy and sore."

"Alright. Let's get you to your room and see what we can do about that," Porthos suggested, moving to take his right side in deference to his still throbbing right shoulder while Athos shifted to support his left.

The trio moved slowly but surely to the marksman's room. Due to his seniority as one of the original Musketeers, and his duties as medic, his room was on the ground level where he had chosen it to be. This was a decision he had made long ago of his own accord claiming he liked the spot and, since he often treated his fellows, no one would have to traverse the stairs while injured. They had a small infirmary, but it was rarely used since most of the men preferred convalescing in their own rooms or appreciated the privacy of Aramis'.

The marksman had lent his quarters to his injured comrades on multiple occasions for reasons that varied between the need for constant monitoring, embarrassment, quiet, or a simple inability to be privately housed anywhere else. Porthos had been host to a temporarily homeless Aramis several times over the years. The man never complained and, more often than not, merely slept on a pallet on the floor of his own quarters for the duration. Porthos only allowed him to do that if he didn't know about it or if a continuous presence was required for the injured party. Otherwise, he invited his brother to stay with him which sometimes seemed to mean 'forced'.

Due to his larger than average size, he had a larger than average sized bed that left more than enough room for Aramis to share with him without being cramped. Had his friend's condition been steady enough to make it up to the second floor where said bed resided, Porthos would have suggested that they adjourn there instead, but under the circumstances he resigned himself to settling for the marksman's room.

In the future, perhaps he could convince the Captain of the need for a larger bed in Aramis' quarters. The man was the Garrison's medic after all and he could, at any point, be forced to see to Porthos there. It would only be fair that the bed be big enough for such an eventuality. He had a feeling that Treville wouldn't put up any real resistance to such a suggestion, more due to the fact that he knew that that was where his top four adjourned when anyone of them was more that minorly injured anyway. In fact, Porthos found himself wondering why this had never occurred to him, or anyone else, before.

He mentally shrugged the thought off to focus more on matching his companion's shorter strides. He noticed Athos doing the same. Aramis was shambling along, slowly and off beat. A limp Porthos hadn't noticed before made it clear that his friend was favoring his right leg, making his gait odd. On top of that, he wasn't doing a great job of bearing his own weight, only taking about a third of it himself. He wasn't picking his feet up off the ground either, just shuffling them forward through the dust. His head hung low like he was too tired to lift it and he was back to trembling.

Thankfully, they didn't have to go far before Porthos was shouldering the man's perpetually unlocked door open and propelling them all inside. A few more steps had them next to the bed where they paused. Athos shifted all of Aramis' weight over to Porthos to free himself to pull back the covers on the mattress.

"Hmm, bed," Aramis mumbled almost too low to hear and Porthos couldn't help a small chuckle.

"Almost Mis," he told him. "Let us get you out of those glass covered clothes and check your hurts then you can sleep. Promise."

"Porthos…" It came out as a cross between a sigh and a whine that had Athos shaking his head as he bent to remove the man's weapons and belts.

D'Artagnan chose that moment to just about barrel into the room, arms laden down with several bowls and buckets and towels. He looked like a one man cleaning crew. Porthos almost swallowed a snort at the sight. Almost.

"I got a bucket of hot water, a bowl of cold, one large empty tub, two cups, and I don't know how may towels," d'Artagnan announced to the room at large as fast as his lips could form the words. "Serge says food will be ready shortly and he'll send someone up with it if we don't come to get it ourselves. Also-"

"Breathe d'Artagnan," Athos ordered dryly, setting Aramis' things on the table behind him carefully and then removing his own weapons. "Set those things down by that chair and come help me get him out of his clothes."

"Bet you never thought you'd hear Athos say something like that did you lad?" Porthos asked with a grin as d'Artagnan moved to comply with Athos' command. In addition, he removed his weapons cache and added them to the pile. A corner of Athos' lip turned up in a nearly imperceptible grin while d'Artagnan smirked outright at the large Musketeer's comment.

"I can do it," Aramis protested, a few beats too slow of the original request.

His fingers fumbled for the clasps on his doublet even as he dipped his chin to look down at what he was attempting to do. If Porthos hadn't maintained such a sturdy grip on him, he would have fallen over.

"Woah Mis," Porthos exclaimed. "Hold still would you and let us help? You don't got to do everything alone. Now settle down."

"I can-"

"We know. You can 'do it yourself'," d'Artagnan interrupted. "We know you can. The real question is 'should you'? Would you be making us if our roles were reversed?" He spread his now empty arms wide to include the others in the room as he spoke. He let that question hang in the air for a beat. "Would you?" he insisted.

Three of the Inseparables held their breath waiting for their brother's reply. It took longer than it should have before Aramis halted his ineffective fingers and let them drop back to his sides.

"No," he whispered in answer.

Porthos' shoulders lost tension at the marksman's reluctant admission and he saw the others do the same. Getting Aramis to agree to accept their assistance without an all-out battle was a huge accomplishment. Either that or he was far more addled than they all thought. Porthos chose to ignore that thought in favor of the first.

Aramis had always been reluctant to admit weakness or that he needed help and the incident at Savoy had only made it worse. The deaths of so many of his fellows and the abandonment by one of his best friends had left him feeling alone in more ways than one. He had felt guilty and unworthy at being the only one to walk away. For a time, he had become more reckless and reclusive, punishing himself. It had taken all of Porthos and Athos' combined time, determination, actions, and love to bring him back to himself and even then it wasn't one hundred percent. Some aspects of his personality and habits had been impossible to return back to what they had been. Hyper alertness, insomnia, an intense dislike for cold, a wariness of the woods, and an even greater reluctance to request assistance were just the most obvious to those who had known him before.

"Alright then," Athos said in the tone he used when he was being a decisive leader and everyone had just agreed to his plan of action. Seconds later, Athos and d'Artagnan had succeeded in stripping Aramis of his sash, doublet, braces, tunic, boots, stockings, and breeches leaving him in only his braise.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

What parts of him weren't covered in cuts were covered in bruises. The only parts of him to have seemingly escaped were the tops and bottoms of his feet.

Porthos cursed again at the story his friend's body told.

His hands, wrists, face, and neck sported innumerable small cuts from the glass window since they had not been protected by the man's heavy leather clothes. His ribs, back, and legs sported bruising, some more impressive than others. His shoulders were swollen slightly, his head was bleeding, and a large gash Porthos had been unaware of ran down the back of his right leg almost from flank to knee and accounted for the earlier limp. It wasn't overly deep but would certainly require some stitches.

Athos let loose a rare curse at the sheer number of mostly minor abuses.

"It's not all that bad," Aramis spoke up, attempting to be reassuring. Instead, he just sounded exhausted.

"You're right," Athos agreed, much to Porthos' surprise. "It's worse."

That, the largest Musketeer could get behind.

"Where should we even start?" d'Artagnan asked, voice quiet.

No one immediately answered.

A sudden knock on the door shifted their attention temporarily away from their essentially naked companion.

"Probably that food Serge promised," d'Artagnan remarked, strolling over to open up.

He was partially right. Serge himself was there on the other side, along with Captain Treville. Between them, they carried food for the four of them and Aramis' bags from Esme that Quientien hadn't arrived with yet.

"Captain!" d'Artagnan exclaimed in surprise. He pushed the door open wide to let them both in.

At the unimpeded sight of Aramis, Serge visibly bit his lip to keep his silence even as he headed straight for the table to deposit his burden. He then promptly left with only a moment's hesitation.

Treville followed suit but did not leave. Instead he claimed one of the room's chairs and sat himself down in it.

"Gentlemen," he greeted, "their majesties and their retinue made it back to the palace safely and are being seen to by Dr. Lemay. I have been assured that they are shaken but physically unharmed. That does not seem to be the case here. Who would like to start?"

Seemingly absently, he handed Athos a small round tin even as he pinned d'Artagnan with his gaze. Athos had not been there, Porthos wasn't likely to pull his focus from Aramis at the moment, and Aramis was swaying where he stood.

D'Artagnan willingly obliged the Captain's unspoken demand while the other two got Porthos stripped of his belts and weapons and then Aramis seated on the edge of the bed between Porthos' legs and propped up against his chest. Athos removed the lid of Treville's tin to expose the medic's bruise balm and set about massaging it into the discolored parts of his friend's front while simultaneously inspecting his ribs for gives. Two were cracked but none were broken.

The Captain listened to the lad's report without comment or question, even when he chose to add extraneous details like the colors of the courtiers' clothes or the quality of their captors' boots. Porthos suspected that he was stalling to give them some time to settle and he was thankful for it. Treville certainly was aware of this too, but let him continue regardless. D'Artagnan finished his portion of the report at approximately the same time Athos began cleaning the paste residue from his fingers.

At this point, Porthos added his much shorter narrative while his friend's moved onto Aramis' hands and wrists, one on each arm. Tweezers were applied to a few pieces of stubborn glass shards and each limb was washed in warm water but left unbandaged. None of the cuts warranted such treatment.

For his part, Aramis endured their ministration silently and without interference, head tipped back on Porthos' shoulder and half asleep. The mention of Rochefort pulling his best friend's shoulder from its socket got his attention though.

"He did what!?" Aramis exclaimed, eyes flying open and torso pulling away from its support. He hissed in pain even as he attempted to twist in place to see for himself.

Porthos found himself jumping in shock at the reaction. Not because of the marksman's worry, Aramis always worried when one of them was hurt, but because he thought that the man had not been aware enough to be paying attention to their discussion. He wouldn't have said anything if he had known he was.

D'Artagnan flinched back in surprise and even the Captain's eyes shot wide in response to the sudden movement.

Athos, though, was quick off the mark, dropping his drying cloth and catching Aramis by the shoulders to halt his motion. He succeeded in pressing him back into Porthos' front and holding him there.

"Calm down Aramis," he placated, "Porthos is fine."

The reassurance fell on deaf ears as the medic's breathing escalated and he continued to squirm in place against the restraint.

"Aramis!" Athos scolded, trying to break through the man's single mindedness.

Once again it did nothing.

"Mis," Porthos spoke, voice low. He placed his large right palm on Aramis' left cheek, gently cupping his face.

The medic stilled at the touch, prompting Athos to release him after he remained still. Porthos turned Aramis' head so that he could see the shoulder in question as he continued to calm his brother.

"It's been set and barely even hurts," he explained softly as if speaking to a child or a wild animal. "I promise you that it is fine. There is no reason for you to get all worked up."

"But Porthos-"

"No Aramis. No buts. Let it go."

"I can't. I need-"

Porthos knew what he needed and sighed. "Alright. I know."

Porthos picked up the medic's left hand by the wrist and slide the man's fingers under the collar of his shirt so he could feel the joint himself. He made a concentrated effort not to tense and not to flinch as his friend expertly palpated the area for his own piece of mind.

"See Mis. It's fine. Rochefort put it back in and we escaped right after. Ran into Athos and the Captain in the hall. Now, how about you calm down and tell your part of the story so we can see about getting you to bed?"

"I'm in bed," Aramis disputed cheekily if a bit breathlessly.

"That you are," the brawler agreed, "tell us anyway."

And so he did. It wasn't a story told to his usual standards. No attempt was made at embellishment or drama and it contained no sweeping arm gestures. He did it in a voice dripping with exhaustion and tinged with suppressed pain. He stuck to the main points and the main points only. He explained about tumbling from the window and landing on an awning. He described scaling the side of the building by the skin of his fingertips and climbing through another window. He mentioned the three courtiers whose deaths he had heard but couldn't stop. He glossed over the fight with the jailor and minimized his rescue of the Queen, her son, and her handmaid then ended it with the reunion in the stairwell.

No one interrupted him. It was quite the tale. Treville even made it a point to say so when he was finished.

"That was well done," he commended them all. "Everyone performed exemplarily. Now, I'll leave you in the capable hands of your brothers. Let me know if you need anything."

That last he directed at Athos specifically as he rose to take his leave. His second in command nodded acknowledgement and d'Artagnan copied him to no ones' surprise.

The door wasn't even shut completely behind their commanding officer before they were once again fussing over Aramis.

"Let's see about that head wound now," Athos declared.

D'Artagnan rushed to place the large empty basin on the floor between the marksman's feet as Athos and Porthos helped maneuver Aramis into a position that would cause him the least amount of pain but still give them access to his head. They settled on him leaning forwards over the bucket with both of Porthos' arms circled around his upper chest to keep him from falling over. They rested his arms along his thighs to keep them out of the way and allow him the illusion of supporting his own weight.

"Get the warm water and towels ready d'Artagnan," Athos suggested, "and grab one of those empty bowls."

Aramis huffed at the man's 'suggestions' and Athos ignored him in favor of carding his fingers through the medic's bloody curls to shake loose bits of glass. A surprising number of tiny shards tinked into the waiting bucket. Athos made several passes, careful of where he put pressure because he knew that somewhere beneath the blood and hair there was at least one open wound.

Aramis flinched on the first run through but relaxed incrementally as the perusal continued. He even made a small noise of contentment that Porthos doubted her realized he had. Obviously the sensation felt good to the tactile man slumping in his arms. He could tell that Athos noticed as well by the smile in his eyes and the fact that he made several unnecessary passes before surrendering to the inevitable.

"Alright Aramis," the swordsman warned, "we're going to wash the blood out of your hair so we can get a good look at its source. The water is warm and it will likely sting."

Aramis made a sound of consent and Athos nodded for d'Artagnan to proceed. The youngest Musketeer filled one of the cups he had brought with him with water from the bucket of hot water that had gradually cooled to merely warm and slowly poured it over the marksman's head. Most of the water was soaked up by Aramis' locks, but the rest ran off into the provided basin in a stream of pink. It took two bowls to saturate all of the man's thick hair.

After that, Athos and d'Artagnan worked together to remove as much blood and as many remaining pieces of glass as possible. D'Artagnan poured the water, working in small sections at a time, while Athos threaded his fingers through the wet strands to facilitate debris removal and untangle the mess. When one section ran clear and seemed to please Athos for cleanliness, they moved onto the next.

About halfway through they had to slightly revise their tactics when Aramis' head had dipped down too far to be helpful. He made no move to hold it up higher and Porthos doubted he could. D'Artagnan shifted to scoop and pour with one hand while holding the forehead of their patient up with the other.

The source of the blood was determined to be a thin, long cut along the back of his head on the left. Athos carefully picked a couple of stubborn shards of glass out of the wound with tweezers but decided that it did not require stitches. Since it was a head wound, it had bled like crazy for its size and he thought a small square of bandage lain over it once they got Aramis sprawled on his belly would be sufficient. It was no longer bleeding.

The teamwork continued as each took a side to dry the marksman's hair as much as possible to prevent him catching a cold on top of everything else as the day cooled. By then, Porthos wasn't even sure if their brother was even still conscious; he was a figurative puddle in his lap.

"Let's get him laying down now Porthos," Athos whispered, tossing his towel towards the door for later cleanup.

Porthos nodded.

D'Artagnan set himself to relocating the bucket of soiled water and his own damp towel out of the way while the other two focused on moving their seemingly comatose patient.

They began by having Athos kneel in front of them and bring Aramis' forehead to rest on his clavicle. He braced both of his hands just above Porthos' supporting arms, one just below each shoulder. Once he indicated that he was ready, Porthos carefully relaxed his embrace and left only Athos to support their friend.

Freed from the tangle of limbs, Porthos scooted backwards on the bed after toeing off his boots and kicking them away so they didn't get dirt on the bed when he pulled his legs up. Backed up sufficiently, and on his knees, he leaned forward and grasped the outside of Aramis' upper arms. In tandem, the two friends shifted their limp brother back against Porthos' chest, Athos paying special attention to bracing his hanging head.

D'Artagnan collected Porthos' abandoned footwear and placed them next to the door while Athos rose in preparation for the next phase of their maneuver. Porthos waited while he bent and gathered Aramis' legs at the knee, one in each hand. As he lifted them up onto the bed, the former thief tipped the marksman sideways and lowered his torso to lay on his right side on the mattress.

Repositioning once again, they moved to roll him onto his stomach. Porthos slid his right arm beneath the medic's shoulder and rested his left on the man's hip. Athos remained in charge of his legs. Gently, Porthos pushed Aramis' hip down and away from himself and pulled his shoulder towards, twisting the body beneath him to turn. He kept at it until his goal had been achieved, Aramis supine on his belly with as little fuss as possible. Athos arranged his legs while Porthos pushed the damp locks off the oblivious man's face and settled the square of bandage d'Artagnan handed him over the man's wound to keep it clean.

"Bruises or leg first?" d'Artagnan asked, poised at the table to collect whatever supplies were needed.

He had watched the two older Musketeers manipulate their friend with confusion at first and then awe and understanding. They had moved together so fluidly that Aramis had not even flinched at their ministrations, let alone woke.

"Bruises," Porthos declared definitively. "He'll probably sleep through that. The leg's not bleeding but it will need to be cleaned and stitched and I'd like to give him a moment."

D'Artagnan nodded his understanding and handed over the tin from before along with a towel to clean his hands with afterwards.

Porthos set immediately to applying the medic's balm to the myriad bruises scattered across the plains of his back, rubbing gently but smoothly in a practiced motion. Aramis wasn't hurt often, unlike Porthos and Athos he did not wander around soliciting brawls, but when he was hurt and incapable of keeping it a secret Porthos was the one he preferred to tend him. Consequently, he thought of himself as passably proficient.

Athos spent the time preparing the marksman's leg with d'Artagnan help. He slit the ruined material of his braise away from the wound with his main gauche and placed a folded towel beneath it to soak up any fluids during the cleaning process. There was no point in soiling the sheets after they had gotten the injured man settled on them.

D'Artagnan sanitized the needle in a special alcohol mixture poured into one of the empty cups from a flask Aramis refused to let them consume the contents of. Finished, he threaded it with the provided thread and set it on a clean towel to await use. He capped the small tin of balm Porthos handed him and replaced it with the rest of the medical supplies while the large man cleaned his hands.

"How do you want to do this?" Athos asked, deferring to Porthos.

It was an odd thing to see, Athos taking orders from anyone not Treville as opposed to giving them, but with their medic out of commission, Porthos was the next best thing. His years on the street and his time spent as a Musketeer, specifically his time spent with Aramis, made that so and Athos was more than aware of that. Porthos also knew Aramis the best and sometimes handling the patient was just as important as handling the wound itself.

"Give me a moment to wake him up and fill him in," Porthos decided, throwing the soiled rag into the pile with the others. "If we jolt him awake due to pain he's not expecting, he'll come up fighting."

Athos nodded his agreement and d'Artagnan copied him a beat later. Aramis had the tendency to fight like a frenzied lion when cornered or surprised and no one wanted him to hurt himself more than he already was.

Plan made, Porthos hauled himself off of the bed and onto the floor. He crouched down near the pillow to be at eye level and took a minute to contemplate how he wanted to go about this. Normally, he would throw open the door, stomp across the room, yank open the curtains, speak overly loud, and maybe steal the man's covers if he was feeling the need to be particularly obnoxious. Aramis would grouch, Porthos would laugh, and they would head out together.

But today wasn't a normal day. His second choice would be to shake his shoulder until he protested, but with his earlier nausea that seemed like a bad idea. Calm words and a gentle hand had worked wonders while riding back, and on his mild moment of panic earlier, so Porthos decided to start with that.

He put his right hand on the marksman's nearest shoulder in preparation for any potentially necessary restraint and threaded the fingers of his left into his curls at the top of his head. Staying well away from the wound at the back of his head, he rubbed small circles on his temple with his thumb.

"Hey Mis," he coaxed. "Can you wake up for me brother? I know you don't want to, but I need you to anyway. You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. Come on, please Mis. Just open your eyes for me, yeah?"

He kept his voice quiet and even to convey a lack of pressure. It took some doing and some patience, but he was rewarded partway through his diatribe with a subtle twitch of the medic's fingers and then a scrunching of his facial muscles.

"That's it Mis," Porthos encouraged. "It will only be for a few minutes and then you can rest for as long as you like. Promise. Open your eyes. Come on."

Finally, Aramis' eyes slotted open and he blinked them sluggishly a few times before focusing on Porthos' face.

"There you are." Porthos smiled.

"P'th's?" Aramis asked, voice slurred from sleep.

"Yeah Mis. It's me. You remember what's going on?"

He thought about that for several seconds, face and eyes slightly unfocused as he pondered the question. It cleared a bit when he seemed to come to an answer.

"Got pushed out a window."

"That's right. We made it back to the Garrison and you fell asleep while we were doctoring you up."

"Tired."

"I know, but you've got a nice right slash in the back of your leg that we've still got to clean and stitch. Didn't want you to be caught unaware."

Porthos felt the muscles in his friend's back tense beneath his hand as he readied himself to twist and see what was being described. He instantly put a stop to that before he could even get started with some downward pressure on his shoulder and a tightened grip on his dark locks.

"There's no need for that," he cautioned. "It is all well in hand, Athos will take care of it. I just need you awake and looking at me while he does it. Can you do that for me?"

"Of course," Aramis said after giving it a moment's thought.

"Alright then."

"I'm going to clean it with water first," Athos announced aloud for Aramis' benefit. "Do you want some wine for the pain before we start?"

"No," Aramis declined. "I'll probably throw it up. Just do it."

Yet another of the medic's strange quirks was his almost brutal honesty about how he felt once you got him to admit it in the first place.

"Starting now."

Porthos felt Aramis' body jump in pain beneath his fingers. All of his muscles tensed tight and stayed that way even as he hissed and clamped his eyes shut. Porthos hated this, seeing his best friend hurting with nothing he could do to put an end to it. Aramis didn't deserve this; he was a caring, helpful individual who only wanted to protect other people. Porthos wished he could trade places so he didn't have to hurt like this. He settled for continuing to move his thumb back and forth along the marksman's temple instead.

"Breath Mis," he reminded him when he seemed to stop. "Just breathe. It'll be over in a minute."

He didn't once pull his gaze from Aramis' face, but he didn't need to to know that Athos had set to scrubbing the slash clean with a towel and flushing out any foreign material with controlled streams of warm water and a pair of tweezers. D'Artagnan stood at the ready to provide anything their leader asked for and as such had Aramis' special sanitizing wine in hand when it was needed. He swapped the swordsman without words being spoken between them. Porthos moved his hand from Aramis' shoulder to grip his left hand instead. If the water had hurt, the alcohol was going to be agony and Aramis always found touch both comforting and grounding. Plus, it would give him something more substantial to squeeze than the sheets.

"I'm sorry," Athos apologized instead of warned. He was no more pleased about this than the rest of them.

D'Artagnan, his hands newly freed, placed both of them on their friend's hips, one on each side, to hold him still while Athos poured. It was a good thing too because as soon as the fiery liquid hit the open wound, the man bucked and automatically tried to squirm away from that which was causing him pain. An actual whimper escaped his control and the amount of force he exerted on Porthos' hand was sure to leave significant bruises come morning. But Porthos didn't complain, merely squeezed back much more gently and kept up his steady stream of comforts.

"Breath through it Mis," he told him. "It'll be over in a second. It's alright. I've got you. Shh."

Athos finished his pass and quickly patted the area dry with a new towel as the alcohol's sting abated and Aramis relaxed his death grip even as his muscles returned to their former minor trembling.

"A few stitches and we're all done," the former Comte intoned, voice tight. Causing pain to one's friend, even if it was beneficial in the long run, was not a pleasant experience. D'Artagnan maintained his position as Athos wielded the needle.

"Sanitize that," Aramis reminded them breathlessly before they began. "It-"

"Already done Mis," Porthos assured him. "Already done. We learned from the best. We've got this. There's no need to worry. You just lay here and let us take care of it."

A small quirk lifted one corner of the marksman's lips and a tiny huff of amusement escaped at the role reversal. Usually, it was him being calm and reassuring. Porthos was determined to fill the role his friend currently could not. As such, he kept his one hand in the man's curls and the other wrapped around his closest fingers so he had something to hold.

The next several minutes were quiet, filled only with the sounds of four humans breathing in different rhythms as Athos concentrated on stitching together human skin, d'Artagnan focused on helping without hurting, Porthos fixated on portraying a calm he didn't feel, and Aramis tried not to think or feel at all. They all succeeded to varying degrees.

"Done," their leader finally breathed, setting aside his instrument of torture in relief.

"Thank God," d'Artagnan added under his breath as he released his restraining hold on his friend and stood at his full height.

"Wrap it so he can sleep," Porthos simultaneously asked and ordered his two able bodied companions.

"Porthos," Aramis lightly scolded, eyes still closed and a smile in his voice even if it wasn't on his face.

"Sorry," Porthos apologized. "I just want this to be over."

"We all do my friend," Athos promised, no censure in his tone or words.

Porthos nodded; he knew they understood because they all felt the same for one another. None of them wanted any of the others to be in pain. The other two also knew that Porthos had a connection with Aramis that went soul deep. Aramis had been his first true friend and his first true brother. They understood that and so easily attributed his brusqueness to his concern.

Working together, they had the doctored limb wrapped in short order and the assisting supplies removed while Porthos manned his self-imposed post and Aramis simply lay there and let them finish.

"There," d'Artagnan announced as Athos secured the tail of the bandage. "Now you can sleep Aramis."

"Unless you'd prefer food first," the swordsman offered. "D'Artagnan had some brought up from Serge."

"I recall," the medic said, "but I don't think it would stay down and I don't really want to move. Thank you anyway." The man's eyes hadn't opened since they had begun on his leg and, while his speech was clear, his voice said he was drifting off.

"Alright. You sleep then," Athos approved. "Porthos?"

"No."

That garnered some attention. Including a raised eyebrow from Athos.

"What do you mean 'no'? You're always hungry."

"Not today."

"Go eat Porthos," Aramis instructed his friend, releasing his captive hand.

"No," Porthos declined, maintaining his hold on the man's appendage. "I can't."

"You can," Aramis insisted. "I plan on staying right here."

"Me too."

"You don't need to do that."

"Yes I do."

"Porthos-"

"I am staying."

Observing Porthos, Athos had a feeling he knew what this was really about. He hadn't been there to watch Aramis' plummet from that window, but he could well imagine how it would feel to witness such a thing. Porthos had had a front row seat to what should have been the death of a man he considered his brother while he was unable to intervene or prevent it. Having lost Thomas, he was familiar with the feeling. It had shattered everything and completely changed his whole life. There had been no reason for Porthos to have believed his friend alive. Most likely, he had fully expected to bury his broken body and forever live with that last vision of his beloved companion in his mind and heart.

Porthos would have been devastated.

The man was as immovable as a mountain but had one of the most compassionate souls Athos had ever seen. Like Aramis, when he loved he loved with everything he had and everything he was and there was no one closer to him than Rene 'Aramis' d'Herblay.

Finding him alive had to have been like having the largest weight imaginable lifted off of him, a weight that likely felt like the weight of the world. Porthos wasn't going to let him out of his sight or vicinity for a long while. He would need the reminder and reassurance that his brother hadn't died, that he was still with him. Truthfully, Athos wouldn't be surprised if Porthos simply could not bring himself to physically let go of his friend. As soon as the initial conflict had ended and the celebratory euphoria had vanished, Porthos had not been more than half an arm's length away with most of that time spent actually touching him in one way or another. Only when dismounting his horse and shifting to move the man from sitting to laying had Porthos fully not been in contact with him. There was no way he was going to separate himself just for some food. He probably had no appetite anyway.

Athos fully understood.

"Alright Porthos," he interjected, "you don't have to do anything you don't want to. You can eat later when you feel up to it. However, you do look tired so why don't you join Aramis in taking a nap?"

D'Artagnan gave him an odd look that he caught out of the corner of his eye, but the lad said nothing. Athos was glad. He would explain it to him later if he didn't figure it out on his own sooner.

Porthos' look of gratitude only emanated from his eyes but could have been seen by a blind man.

Aramis picked up on it with his eyes closed. That man knew Porthos just as well as Porthos knew him. His weariness and head injury had slowed down his mental processes, but he had finally clued in to the problem and was more than willing to seize the solution Athos had presented.

"Great idea," he said. "Help me shift over a bit and you can keep me from falling out of bed."

"That ain't nec-"

"Porthos," Aramis admonished, shifting where he lay. "You know I'll sleep better with you on the bed. Come on now."

That was true in more ways than one. The medic in him would feel guilty at leaving a friend to sleep on a chair or on the floor when he could prevent it, especially since he knew his shoulder still had to ache from having been pulled from its socket. Add in the fact the he knew it would benefit Porthos' frame of mind as well as his body and there was no way in hell he wouldn't share to relieve even a fraction of that guilt and fear.

Porthos, however, would probably attribute the comment to something else. Aramis always slept best when pressed up against another person. Yet another hold over of Savoy. One Porthos was well aware of and one he had helped alleviate in the past.

Having survived being abandoned for days in the snow covered woods surrounded by nothing more than the corpses of his fallen comrades, for a long time Aramis had only been able to sleep when another person had slept with him. Night after night, Porthos had provided that service for his friend during his recovery, more than willing to protect him from the horrors of his mind. Athos had too, but Porthos was better at it. He was larger, warmer, more tactile, and less uncomfortable with it. Porthos didn't mind sprawling beside his greatest friend in a cramped space or under shared blankets if it meant a nightmareless sleep for the marksman. On snowy nights, out in the cold, he didn't hesitate to wrap the smaller man up in his arms to shelter him from the elements and keep the demons at bay. He was happy to provide whatever comfort his brother required. Like now.

There would likely not be any dreams of Savoy, but if Porthos thought Aramis needed him, he would not shy away. It was just that this time Porthos needed Aramis whether he knew it or not, whether he was willing to admit it or not. Aramis would have no qualms returning the favor.

"Alright," Porthos relented easily, bending to assist in shuffling Aramis closer to the wall and open up some space for the much larger Musketeer. It would be a tight fit, but neither man minded.

D'Artagnan looked on, mild confusion on his face, as Porthos climbed into the narrow bed beside Aramis. He settled on his back at the medic's insistence and squirmed in place until he was comfortable. The position had his uninjured left shoulder tucked up against his friend.

"You need a bigger bed," Porthos complained good-naturedly to him as soon as he stopped moving about.

"Why? You planning on sleeping here often?" the marksman asked.

"Maybe."

Aramis snorted as he shuffled closer to Porthos' side. "Good. You're warm," he said, throwing his left arm over his partner's chest and settling his head on his shoulder.

Porthos chuckled and freed his pinned arm by running it between his cuddler and out behind him.

"I do aim to please," he joked, tucking the crown of his brother's head beneath his chin.

"Aiming is my thing," Aramis informed him, voice trailing off at the sense of warmth and safety.

"I know. Go to sleep Mis," Porthos whispered. He ran his fingers though the hair spread across his shoulder one last time, convinced that the man was asleep before they were even halfway done. The puff of breath exhaled against his neck told him that he was right.

"He out?" Athos asked him.

"Yeah."

"Good," d'Artagnan declared, "he looks comfortable enough to be." A twinkle of satisfaction in his eye, he reached down and gathered the folds of Aramis' blanket and pulled it up over the two occupants of the bed. "And so do you," he added once he was satisfied with his work. "Sleep well Porthos."

The brawler nodded at their youngest with a small smile and shut his eyes. With the live body of his brother resting against him, relaxed and safe, and his other two brothers guarding their rest, Porthos was determined to do just that. The last thing he heard was the sound of their oldest and youngest retreating to the table for some much deserved sustenance.

Athos smiled a genuine soft smile from his place beside d'Artagnan as he watched Porthos slip into slumber after only a few moments.

D'Artagnan released a body collapsing sigh. "I am so glad that is all over," he said.

"As am I," Athos agreed, turning to face his protégé. "And now that those two are taken care of, are you alright? Any injuries I should be aware of?"

"No Athos. The worst I got was some wrist abrasions from being tied up."

Athos stared him straight in the eye and raised an eyebrow at him.

"I promise. No injuries." He held up both hands in a gesture of surrender.

Athos believed him. "And Constance?"

"The same. Those of us that he kept in the solarium, he mostly just tormented with words. Aramis easily bore the vast majority of the consequences of that man's anger. And the courtiers, of course."

The swordsman sighed and ran a hand down his face. "I am sorry that I was not there with you," he apologized sincerely.

"It's fine Athos. We all understand why you weren't and do not hold it against you. At all. Your presence would have likely made little or no difference in how things played out and it was important that you were here with Treville to lead the rescue when Milady came to tell you. I am actually surprised that you believed her, all things considered."

"I didn't. Not really. Treville insisted that we could not take the chance she was lying. I had little to do with it."

D'Artagnan shrugged. "It all worked out. Now, how about some of this excellent food?"

The two friends ate their fill of Serge's excellent fare and set some aside for the others if they woke up. They then quietly tidied the room of the evidence of their misadventure. They repacked Aramis' medical supplies, disposed of the used and soiled materials, returned Serge's buckets and bowls sans bloody water along with their empty food dishes, and put the medic's dirty and damaged clothes in the company's laundry for cleaning and repair. Once done, they settled in to keep an eye on their sleeping companions.

D'Artagnan nodded off in his chair after a while, exhausted by the day's events and the adrenaline dump, but Athos couldn't convince himself to sleep. He had left his friends and his monarch due to his inability to cope with the presence of his wife. He had allowed his personal feelings to get in the way of him doing his job and others had suffered for it. That was unacceptable and not how he operated. He vowed to apologize to the others upon their rousing and to see that it never happened again. It wouldn't fix what had already occurred because one cannot change the past, but it was the best he could offer. That and his vigilance now. Stubbornly, he silently kept watch over his friends, only moving once to drape a blanket over d'Artagnan.

The rest of the day passed slowly and quietly. Aramis stirred restlessly a couple of times, evidence of nightmares in his movements. However, before Athos could intervene, Porthos would shift his hold while in his sleep and the marksman would quiet at his touch. Porthos showed hints of less than stellar sleep only once and Aramis unconsciously returned the favor by pressing closer and murmuring to him. Athos could discern no words and wasn't even sure there were any, but they seemed sufficient to the former thief. D'Artagnan, on the other hand, never so much as twitched.

All in all, it was a perfect time for self-contemplation that Athos wished he had prepared himself for by having copious amounts of wine on hand. Since he did not, and he couldn't bring himself to leave to get any, he sat and watched and tried to think of nothing at all. He found that he mostly succeeded.

When d'Artagnan woke around dusk he was glad for the company once again even though they did little talking. Together they finished off the food they had set aside earlier since the others showed no signs of joining them. It wasn't as good as the fresh fair from before, but both had eaten far worse.

Afterwards, Athos convinced him to leave to see to Constance. The young man had been both torn and eager to comply and had taken some convincing before he had left Athos to guard their brothers' rest alone. Personally, Athos was loathe to see him go, but knew the lad needed to see to his love himself since the state of his companions had been proven to be alright. He'd suckered him into dropping off the dirty dishes to Serge though, so that had amused him.

In the quiet once more, he resigned himself to a long night of standing watch. He didn't even make it to midnight before he nodded off, his low snores adding the only sound to the room that wasn't soft breathing. He slept soundly through the night, perched uncomfortably in his chair, not even rousing when Treville stopped by to check on them.

Forgoing a knock to avoid waking whoever might be sleeping, Treville pushed open the door on silent hinges and peered inside. He was unsurprised to see Porthos and Aramis sharing the bed, cuddled into one another and completely oblivious. D'Artagnan he knew would not be present, he had seen him leave the compound, but he was mildly shocked to find Athos also asleep. Usually, if one of them was injured, at least one stood watch, even in the safety of the Musketeer Garrison. It had more to do with being on hand should one of them need anything than for physical safety he knew.

It would seem that the thankfully untrue prospect of Aramis' demise had wiped them all out. As Musketeers they faced the possibility of death regularly, but hardly ever in such a fashion and none of them had come so close in some time. Plus, as far as they were concerned and aware, for a short time in their minds the man had in fact been dead. To find out that he was not had been a miracle. With all of the emotional upheaval, he could hardly blame their exhaustion. So, with a small smile, he covered Athos with the blanket d'Artagnan had previously discarded, blew out the few remaining candles, and left them to their rest, snicking the door shut quietly behind him.

As was his habit, Porthos woke with the rising sun despite the fact that he couldn't see it. He was like clockwork that way. No matter how he late he stayed up the night before, he rose with the sun. It was a habit he'd begun on the streets and never shook.

Like him, Aramis was usually a morning person, not always up with the sun but frequently close to it. When sick or injured, however, he regularly slept longer. Often this was due to the simple fact the man resisted sleep as if it were one of the cardinal sins and he merely succumbed to level the playing field.

Aramis was always so full of energy and interest in everything that sleep wasn't one of his favorite things to do. Never had been, apparently. Accumulated nightmares over the years had only made him more resistant so that when he did sleep for more than an hour or two at a time, he was down for the count to catch up on his sleep debt and slept like the dead. When he did sleep of his own accord, he squirmed and, unless they were on a mission, even spoke. The man had an uncanny ability to know when to be silent. Porthos had asked him about it before and Aramis had shrugged and claimed either to have no idea what he was talking about or to having an unconscious iron control on his mind, depending on how he felt at the time. It was odd to say the least, but they all had their quirks.

Today, he was still out and Porthos was not surprised. Athos' slumbering presence was though. Probably would be to him too, once he woke from his uncomfortable looking place under the blanket he likely hadn't crawled beneath. D'Artagnan perhaps, or maybe even Treville. The fact that he was there was no shock at all, they often stayed with an injured brother, but Porthos had expected him to be awake. Athos was another of his companions that had a love/hate relationship with sleep and, with half the team down, he had been sure that their leader would have kept watch and kept them close. The man could be a bigger mother hen than Aramis. However, the swordsman was sleeping and d'Artagnan was nowhere to be found. Neither was cause for concern, it merely struck him as out of the ordinary.

Mentally, he shrugged it off as Aramis shifted beside him in his sleep, rolling his head to tuck it more firmly into Porthos' neck. He smiled down at his friend and his unconscious desire for comfort.

Porthos had not been nearly so tactile before befriending the expert marksman of the Musketeers who had even succeeded at changing Athos' habits on the subject; not nearly to the same degree, but still. Porthos hadn't been opposed to such physical affection, just never really had someone to bestow it on until Aramis. Athos, on the other hand, was really only tactile with Aramis, and recently d'Artagnan.

"He still asleep?" Athos asked, pulling the brawler from his musings.

"Yeah," he responded. He looked up in time to catch the man in a yawn and a whole body stretch that had the blanket falling to the floor. "Where did the pup get off to?" he asked as soon as Athos relaxed back into his chair.

"Constance." He needn't say more. "He'll be back. Eventually."

Porthos snorted. "Breakfast?" he asked hopefully.

It as Athos' turn to snort. "Fine. I'll get it." He rose, stooped to pick up the fallen blanket, folded it, and left it on the chair before departing to do as promised.

For his part, Porthos debated waking his still sleeping companion. He was once again loathe to disturb him and bring him back to awareness of his pain, but also knew that he hadn't eaten since breakfast yesterday.

Sleep.

Food.

Sleep.

Food.

In the end, he settled on food since he had been asleep for so long. In a repeat of the previous day, he carded his hand through the sleeping man's hair, careful of his wound. He hoped that the sensation would prevent the medic from startling awake. His friend let out a groan at the feeling and tried to push even closer into Porthos.

The former thief chuckled softly. "Wake up Mis," the dark skinned Musketeer encouraged with a smile in his voice.

"No," Aramis protested, sounding just like a small child who did not wish to do his chores.

"Yes. It's time for breakfast."

"I don't want to."

Porthos laughed. Exactly like a child. "Sorry Mis. You'll thank me later." He shook him gently and his charge sighed.

"No I won't," he insisted even as he cracked open his eyes and peered at his friend.

"Sure you will," Porthos claimed, still grinning.

"Fine," the marksman acquiesced, making reluctant moves to sit himself up.

Porthos immediately moved to help. A few moments later both of them were sitting upright, next to each other, and with backs propped up against the headboard. Aramis moved slowly but with no evidence of the dizziness of the day before. He was obviously in pain, but the signs he was giving off said to Porthos that it was manageable. The former thief was relieved.

"How are you feeling today?" he asked, letting his brother lean some of his weight against his side without comment. It probably helped his ribs.

"And don't say 'fine'," Athos' unexpected voice added from the door where he and d'Artagnan had just entered.

Aramis huffed at their repeat of yesterday's performance, but did it with a hint of amusement instead of frustration.

"Alright," he replied with an outright grin, just to be an ass.

D'Artagnan laughed despite not having heard this exchange the day before and set his burden of breakfast items down on the table.

"Aramis," Athos half scolded their friend with an infinitesimal smile quirking up the corner of his mouth even as he arranged his food items beside d'Artagnan's.

"My muscles ache, a few of the cuts sting, my leg is throbbing, and my head hates me," Aramis listed in truthful answer. "I am also hungry, but I am alive and home with my family, so… alright."

"I'll take that," Porthos declared, settling in to devour the food d'Artagnan handed over.

Their youngest nodded agreement as he delivered Aramis his portion before settling down in the chair he had claimed the day before with his own plate.

"So will I," Athos acknowledged, doing the same. "So will I."

Passing by outside, Treville smiled at the overheard sentiment and happily retreated to his office, content in the knowledge of the strength and resiliency of his top four Musketeers.

END