A/N: Usual rubbish. They're not mine, I just play in the sandbox. And please be aware that there is an (admittedly brief) corporal punishment scene between Athos and Aramis in Chapter 3. This is set towards the end of Season 2.
1
"He's an idiot," Porthos said suddenly as they passed the house of one of Aramis' previous mistresses on their patrol route one evening, Aramis and d'Artagnan having gone off together also, "but he's never been suicidal like this."
"No," Athos agreed.
Even at his lowest, Athos had only barely been able to contemplate such an act; for Aramis and his unshakeable faith such an act of despair would be unimaginable. Nevertheless, Athos – and Porthos and d'Artagnan – knew all too well that there was a darkness in Aramis that twisted harmless joie de vivre into alarming bouts of carelessness and actual seeking out of suffering. As a man who has spent half his adult life looking for salvation at the bottom of a bottle, Athos could not help but sympathise.
"Something's up. Something's happened." Porthos went on. He cast Athos a suspicious look when the older man did not reply. For a moment, he merely glared as though hoping by that to spur Athos in to speaking. Finally, he nodded, his jaw a harsh line. "Right." His frustration and his hurt were plain to see. "I forgot – he talks to you."
Athos frowned. Porthos made it sound as though Aramis distrusted him, valued Athos' friendship over his own. He understood Porthos' point of view, even while he thought it a little unfair. To see Aramis so obviously ensnared by his own cruel conscience pained Porthos deeply – all the more for his own helplessness in stopping it. Aramis did talk to Porthos...but, perhaps, he confessed to Athos.
"If it is any consolation," Athos said quietly, "he did not tell me of this. He would have taken it to his grave if he could have."
"Must be bad, whatever it is." Porthos eyed him askance, watching without watching. "You two ain't been right for months."
Athos snorted an approximation of a laugh, albeit there was no humour there.
"You could not imagine such idiocy if you tried. But you are right, I am... conflicted."
He had, for months now, been stuck between wanting to throttle their brother for his stupidity, or take him away to shield him from whatever ugliness came of it. His mind altered with every breath.
"Conflicted?" Porthos repeated flatly. "You see 'im risking his life – for nothing – an' letting himself get hurt because for some reason he thinks he deserves it, distancing 'imself from us more 'n more each day, and you're 'conflicted'?"
"It is not my place to interfere."
"If not you then who?" Porthos interrupted, stopping in the middle of the street, and blocking Athos' way. "He won't talk to me, Athos! He won't listen, and I -" he broke off, face tight with barely contained anguish.
Athos clasped one hand around the other man's elbow. How deep Porthos' guilt and despair run to have recognised such tumult in their younger brother and have all attempts to soothe it rebuffed. And how painful too for Aramis to have his dearest friend stand ready to support him in his grief and be unable to tell him of it lest he endanger Porthos more than he already had. More suffering. More crosses for Aramis to bear when he was already fit to collapse.
"I will talk with him."
Porthos nodded, suddenly looking exhausted. He rubbed one hand over his face. "Always say he wants a good walloping," he mumbled with a mirthless laugh. "Just never thought I'd be the one suggestin' it."
"You should not have had to," Athos admitted, guiltily. "I have been remiss but I just... I believed he needed time."
He had allowed Aramis' courting danger to go on for too long. But it seemed to him that Aramis had been through so much recently. So much had happened so quickly. No time to recover from one blow before the next one fell: Adele, Marsac, Isabel, - all tragedies that Aramis had felt personally responsible for. And now the ever-present threat that his treason would be discovered... Little wonder their brother's judgement and self-worth were crumbling under the weight of such a year. But Aramis had seemed to deal with it all so much better and for so much longer than any of them might have expected. The last year or so had hardly been without its trials for Athos either and Aramis was not the only one for whom ghosts had arisen to destroy the life he had made. It was the understanding that came with experience that had tempered his ire – God knew, Athos himself had struggled with his own temptations for long enough. So, perhaps he had been wrong to expect his bother to cope with his treasonous sin alone. But for pity's sake! He had simply felt Aramis had earned a little leniency: the opportunity to try. He told Porthos so.
"Yeah," the big man agreed with a sigh. "I know; it's been rough – for all of us. But look, I'm not askin' you to break confidences. Just...whatever it is he's done, it's not worth him tearing 'imself apart over 'stead of askin' us for help."
Athos attempted a smile, but failed.
"Not worth you tearing yourself apart neither," Porthos added with a meaningful look. "Don't think me an' the whelp 'aven't noticed."
"I will talk with him," Athos repeated, avoiding going any further down that line of conversation. "I'm certain he will give me reasonable cause in time."
2
"Forgive me, Brother," Athos murmured barely a day later, sounding grim rather than apologetic as he manoeuvred them both into Aramis' apartment with his hand on Aramis' elbow, "I should not have allowed it to come to this."
Aramis said nothing in reply, too intent on extricating himself from his lieutenant's grip. It was not until Athos turned him loose that he found his voice.
"You had no right," he snarled, "no right at all to interfere."
"Then forgive me again, but had I not interfered you would be in the Châtelet by now or, more likely, dead in a gutter."
Athos did not raise his voice – a nobleman does not – but his outrage, his complete and utter disbelief at his brother's stupidity sorely tested his restraint. As indeed it had done for some months now. Despite Athos' good manners, Aramis scowled.
"I know what you're about, Athos."
"I should hope so." Athos wondered how much of Aramis' reckless acts could have been avoided if he had only stepped in earlier. Turning from the door to his brother, Athos raised one brow. "And are you agreeable to it?"
Aramis gaped. "Am I- Am I... agreeable?" he repeated incredulously, his ire piqued as Athos had expected it would be.
It was always a delicate matter to offer absolution, and Athos was never entirely certain until he did so how Aramis would respond. When Athos had timed his confrontation perfectly, when Aramis was only beginning to reflect upon his misdeeds and beginning to suffer the guilt for them then he was indeed agreeable – gracious even – sometimes even willing to listen to reason over punishment. But there were times – as was the case now – when Aramis had only the illusion of choice, when through his actions or words he had sealed his own fate before Athos even broached the subject. And Aramis knew it.
So Athos asked him, allowed just enough indulgence into his tone as to tweak Aramis' pride, enough of a smirk as to say 'your opinion is irrelevant'. And Aramis responded with just enough outrage as to confirm Athos' suspicions – he needed it, needed his brother's discipline and guidance, and the tender care that came with it, but good God, he did not want it.
"Am I agreeable?" Aramis spat again, his fists clenching at his sides. "I am not! I do not presume to drag you from your bottle when you are insensible and helpless as an infant though God knows you will never break from that crutch unless someone does. No! I trust that you know your own mind! You might grant me the respect of doing the same! What business is it of yours where and with whom I spend my nights?"
The words stung – as they were intended to – but for a moment gave Athos pause. The night was not about one act of foolishness or self-destruction, he reminded himself, it was about dozens. It was always such a thin line – one that Athos trod with the utmost care – between being mindful of his brother's affairs, and interfering in them. He could not govern Aramis' actions – would never seek that power over another – but he could not ignore the growing carelessness, the lack of forethought that, if unchecked, would eventually get Aramis killed. In all likelihood, it was going to get them all killed.
"It is not your nights nor the company you keep that concerns me," Athos explained, though that was not strictly true. "But Treville's position is precarious enough already – he can no longer protect you from the Châtelet when the Red Guard go running to Roquefort about 'the Spanish musketeer' who would duel them in the streets!"
"I do not ask for his protection – or yours! And we have always duelled with the Red Guards."
"But not five to one, my friend. Not you alone." Athos reached out then, clutched at Aramis' shoulder and shook him roughly. "You will be killed if this continues, Aramis. Either by sword, or shot, or at the end of a noose, you will be killed."
"I wonder..." Aramis began very softly, his gaze suddenly vulnerable as he searched Athos' face for something.
"You wonder what?"
Whatever vulnerability was there was lost and Aramis' face turned cold, resentful once more. "I wonder that you would even notice."
Realisation hit so swiftly after that that it seemed for a moment that all the air had gone out of the room. That moment was enough though, for Aramis nodded to himself and turned away – satisfied that his words had found their mark. Though Athos had been prepared for his brother's spite, he had not expected words obviously meant to wound quite so deeply. Athos did not think for one single moment that Aramis, even with his propensity for the dramatic, truly believed what he said.
It would have been so easy to have left then, to have accepted the words as truth and abandon Aramis to his own self-pity. So easy to bite back with cruelty of his own as he had so often done recently. Aramis was seeking a rise from him – seeking another quarrel, another fight and Athos would oblige him, but not yet.
The sentiment behind such a statement... the abandonment, the confusion, the hurt he now perceived in his brother was staggering. Love for Aramis – ridiculous, foolish, spiteful man that he could be – bloomed warm and unexpected, almost unfamiliar, in his chest. He began to reach out, intending to soothe the anguish of his rejection with a touch.
But Athos reconsidered. It was not his affection that Aramis had been inviting these past months. It was not his affection that Aramis wanted – needed – from him (though that would come too) but his attention. His notice. His acknowledgement that Aramis was overwhelmed and drowning in regret and grief and utterly lost.
It was difficult, whilst labouring under his own guilty conscience, to disregard any thoughts of comforting Aramis and instead turn his mind back to violence and discipline. And there would be violence, Athos had no doubt of that though he had half a mind to refuse either of them that release. But no; Aramis was too hopelessly distraught for there not to be, whether they wanted it or not. They would fight, and Aramis would lose because to emerge triumphant when this was all he had wanted for months was a madness not even Aramis would entertain.
"I would notice, Aramis."
3
Something snapped within Aramis at Athos' utter stolidity. The anger and fear of the last few months exploded within him until he could hardly see, so utterly betrayed did he feel. How dare he. How dare he!
Athos' lips pulled upwards slightly and he nodded, widening his stance as though readying for an attack.
"It's all right." He gestured Aramis to engage. "Come."
He tackled Athos. His friend giving a satisfying 'ooph!' of surprise as Aramis' shoulder collided with his stomach and took him to the floor. They scrabbled together for several moments, Aramis' movements unplanned and undisciplined, only succeeding in overcoming Athos by the speed behind them. Even under ordinary circumstances, they were fairly evenly matched and despite his frenzy Aramis won several bouts, overpowering Athos several times by sheer force and not skill. But Athos was familiar with him, knew how to block or where to press to stop him in his tracks and his advantage did not last long. He soon found himself pinned beneath Athos, and no amount of desperate, undignified wriggling dislodged the older man.
He lashed out blindly with one arm only for it to be easily caught in Athos' grip and used to flip him onto his stomach, his face to the floorboards and Athos' knee pressed painfully into his back.
"Aramis," Athos' voice sounded in his ear. "Fight me if you must, but not like this. Calm down."
The order did nothing to soothe his determination to- to what? Flee? Hurt him? His stomach turned at the thought. Still, he bucked and struggled against his friend's grip. He did not have time to contemplate though before Athos hauled him to his feet and slammed him against a wall, holding him there with one forearm across his throat.
"Aramis," Athos repeated quietly, keeping Aramis in place with inexplicable ease. "Listen to me. You are overwrought, and too frantic. You are a musketeer. Control yourself."
"Let go!" Aramis yelled hoarsely instead, straining against Athos but to no avail. In an even fight, he could dislodge him. Here however, his limbs felt like lead, though some madness compelled him to keep struggling while it was clearly hopeless. He could not understand the sudden desire to inflict pain upon Athos – his friend, once his brother. The thought brought a burning to his eyes and he redoubled his efforts. "Athos, please!"
With a harsh sigh, Athos yanked him forwards and, taking advantage of Aramis' stumbling, pushed him back against the wall – none too gently – this time facing it. Several breathtakingly hard smacks landed across the seat of his breeches and again he wrestled against his captor. Athos pulled his arm upwards, high up his back until his shoulder burned and he loosed a sob of sheer frustration.
"Aramis." Athos' breath was hot against his back, his voice infuriatingly calm in stark contrast to Aramis' frenzy. "Please. Calm down."
Aramis heaved fitfully as if he had run for miles, each breath sapping him of valuable strength. It took a long while, but eventually Aramis felt his limbs melt, his head suddenly too heavy even to lift. Athos felt it too, he knew, because ever so slowly the other man released and lowered Aramis' sore arm.
"Hush, René," Athos said at his back, still inches away from him. "We have all night."
"Athos."
A pause, then, "No. Just be still now."
And then Athos was gone from him, away to God only knew where and Aramis would have turned, would have followed but… but Athos had told him to stay. To be quiet. To be still.
But this was cruel! He wasn't made for silent, lonely contemplations – his time spent in the seminary as a boy had proven that. It was madness. He couldn't! Athos couldn't ask this of him.
His eyes burned, his cheeks cool and damp with the occasional helpless, frustrated, furious tear. He had become reckless, he knew. More so than ever before. Reckless and a danger to himself and those around him. He had always been a libertine, yes, but never cruel, never felt the need to glory in his conquests as he did now. To be caught had never been a part of his plans; the sneaking from chambers, the hanging from windowsills had always been part of his enjoyment – never the confrontations. He knew it was only through the grace of God, and the intervention of his brothers that he was still living.
The others did not understand – could not understand, perhaps – how his actions weighed on him even as he repeated them again and again. He was such a fool.
Athos knew though. Had always known how Aramis' wits escaped him as he yearned for grace but instead fell ever further from it. But Athos, it seemed, had quite given up on him even now. He wanted to scream with the helplessness of it all. There was no release for him now. He could not confess – could not sit in the confessional and admit treason – could not even profess contrition. He did not regret, was not contrite. It had pleased God that a son – his son – be born from their sin and how could he, Aramis, regret that? But he was not at peace with it either. He loved her, God help him he loved her still, and loved the child they had made together. The child who would never, could never know him.
Hopelessness and exhaustion weighed on him, and he sighed out. With one hand, he reached up and dashed the dampness from his face.
He was out of control. Detached. Restless with his own stupidity and only himself to blame. He was exhausted. Was growing weary of soldiering but too afraid – too damnably hedonistic – to yet seek to return to life in a seminary. He felt his restlessness like a fever, and it was killing him.
Suddenly, where there had been the beginnings of surrender, of acceptance, he felt his frustration building once more. Mounting and mounting, suffocating him, and it was too much. Athos couldn't force him to do this, he couldn't!
…He couldn't.
The realisation hit like a physical force, his troubled thoughts calming as quickly as they had started.
Athos could not force him to stand there. He could order, yes, but the only thing holding Aramis there was Aramis. He could leave whenever he wanted.
But he wasn't moving. It was more though than mere deference to Athos.
Just be still now.
That was it. All that Athos required of him – all that anybody required of him – was that he merely stand and be still. No orders, no machinations, no constantly wondering if this was it – the day he was discovered.
Just be.
His lungs expanded suddenly, opening up until he was gasping, giddy with it. He almost wanted to laugh it was so ludicrous. The world beyond required things of him – things that exhausted him, hurt him, frightened him. But here, in this place, all that was required was this.
Be quiet. Be still. Breathe.
He sensed movement to his left, just beyond his line of sight and he glanced that way to see Athos pushing off from where he had been leaning against the wall, watching him. Not gone away then. Not really. Not this time. Aramis flushed, feeling just a little bit ridiculous.
"Better?" Athos asked, his brows just slightly raised in query. He unfolded his arms as he approached, laid one hand warm upon Aramis' shoulder. Not squeezing, just…there.
"I-" He broke off, not sure what to say but needing to say something. He wanted to share his revelation with his friend, but he found himself saying something rather nonsensical. "It's very quiet."
Athos' brows climbed higher, then dropped, frowning delicately. Aramis couldn't blame him. Even to his own ears he sounded addled. Then, quite suddenly, the older man's face cleared, something of a smile playing around his lips. Athos' hand moved across his shoulders firmly, thumbing over his rapidly calming pulse point.
"Good."
And then he left again. Well, not left per se. Aramis could still feel him in the room behind him, soft footfalls and measured breaths sounding soothing. Familiar. But he wasn't so close now and while some small part of Aramis – the part that had missed Athos, his steadfastness and acerbic wit - yearned again for his closeness, the larger part of him was content now to do as he was told. To trust in Athos' judgment as he always had in the past.
Be quiet. Be still. Breathe.