Aramis
"d'Art?"
The deep concern in his friend's voice drew Athos' sharp gaze, but Aramis' sole attention was on the pained brown eyes of their youngest brother. He made to reach for him but d'Artagnan somehow paled even further and shrunk away from him, gasping as his broken ribs protested the movement and sent more blood flowing from the knife wound to his lower abdomen.
"P'thos," he murmured, his voice as shaky as the rest of him, his eyes searching frantically around him for the one man not yet present.
"d'Art!" Aramis heard Porthos' anguished call from behind him, turning in time to catch Athos' crumpled face seconds before Porthos shoved his way past both of them, the burly man crowding past Aramis to get in d'Artagnan's line of sight.
"P'thos," the kid breathed, finally relaxing as the Musketeer he'd been calling for slipped his arm behind d'Artagnan's back and held him up against his broad chest.
"I got you, d'Art," Porthos assured, and the man seemed to melt into the embrace as Porthos arranged himself around his younger brother. "I got you."
"Porthos?" Aramis asked, his hands clenching and unclenching where he held them pressed against his thighs, not wanting to frighten d'Artagnan but needing to see how badly he was hurt.
The big man shook his head, "Give 'im a minute, Aramis," he said, cupping d'Art's head close to his chest.
Aramis looked beseechingly at Athos but no help was forthcoming from their Captain. His icy blue eyes held Aramis' steadily, arms folded across his chest as he stood waiting for the questions he knew were coming.
"What is happening?" Aramis asked, throwing his hands up in frustration and settling back on the balls of his feet as he relented to his brothers' stares. "He's never been like this, he wouldn't even let me touch him Athos."
"Me either," Athos said quietly and earned a shocked look from Aramis. d'Artagnan would do anything for Athos, but to deny his mentor touch was like cutting the legs out from under the man. Athos nodded slowly to himself, as if he knew what Aramis was thinking, and he took in the sight of Porthos' large body wrapped protectively around the lax form of d'Artagnan, the young man completely pliant in the gentle giant's tender embrace.
"It scares 'im," Porthos said, his eyes pinned to the wall somewhere over Aramis' shoulder as he spoke, lost in a memory only he could see.
"What does?" Aramis asked after nothing else seemed forthcoming, already knowing and dreading the answer but needing the man to voice it.
Porthos looked at him then, his dark eyes pits of cold, unadulterated fury as he spat, "Pain. Touch."
"But Port-"
"The only reason 'e tolerates me is cause I found 'im, Aramis. All trussed up like you wouldn't believe, bloody and broken, 'e was. I thought 'im dead before I laid 'ands on him and even then I couldn't believe it. So much blood," Porthos broke off in a whisper, tightening his arms around his charge as memories assailed him.
"The Spanish took him close to two years ago, now. He was scouting out to the west of camp one morning and never came back. We spent three weeks searching for him. Time and again we came up empty and I was forced to give up the search. But we kept looking wherever we went, until Porthos stumbled upon him in a Spanish encampment miles to the north of where we'd lost his trail. By then the damage was done. He'd had both shoulders dislocated, his right wrist was broken, multiple ribs were broken or cracked, there was an infected knife wound to his thigh, and he was covered in bruises and cuts. It's a miracle he's alive, is what it is," Athos stepped in when he saw Porthos wouldn't. "But no matter what we did, he wouldn't let anyone tend him but Porthos, even when he was delirious with fever and blood loss, the lad wouldn't even let me touch him.
"It wasn't until a few weeks later, when his body was nigh on healed that he allowed me to put a hand on him," the Captain said. "It's nothing you've done, Aramis, but Porthos has become his safety net when he's wounded and hurting. Not even I could get through to him right now, and believe me, I've tried. Whenever he's wounded he gets like this; won't stand touch unless it's Porthos.
"We don't question it anymore," Athos continued, as if it was a simple fact of life. "I couldn't send one into the field without the other, for fear of d'Art getting wounded without Porthos. He gets violent, nearly took off a couple of my fingers the first time I tried to tend him without Porthos around. After that it was hard to deny that d'Art has a finite capacity for others' touch when he's overwhelmed and in pain, beginning and ending with Porthos."
"'M sorry."
Both men's gazes went to the young man still enveloped in Porthos in surprise.
"Nothing to be sorry for, d'Art," Porthos assured his brother. "I got you." He said it as if that was the end of the conversation, and to the three of them it was. d'Artagnan had been through hell and if Porthos' presence helps even the slightest bit, they were all more than willing to make the concession; even though it physically pained Athos and Aramis to be on the sidelines when it came to their injured brother. But they all understood trauma and what it did to a person, Aramis most of all. Savoy haunts him still, tearing him from pleasant dreams and sending him into his own private hell more often than he would care to admit, even to himself.
"Mmmm," was the only response the trio got through d'Artagnan clenched his teeth as another wave of pain assailed his fragile body.
"Right," Porthos murmured, gently unfolding his long limbs from around the young man and leaned him against the wall. "Ribs and knife wound to your abdomen. Anything else I should be aware of?" he asked the ailing d'Art.
"Think I hit my head," d'Artagnan revealed after he'd gotten his breath back, small puffs of air marking each shaky exhale in the cool room.
Aramis struggled to keep his hands to himself as Porthos went about assessing d'Artagnan's injuries and wrapping his abdomen and ribs so they could be better cared for back at the garrison. He'd never been regulated to observer in a situation such as this and he was surprised with the anger, jealousy, and sadness that shot through him as Porthos treated d'Art with a care and knowledge he did not possess four years previous.
"I wasn't lyin' when I told you we learned to live without you, Aramis," Porthos told him, not having to see the marksman to know what he was thinking. He'd known the man too long for that and old habits die hard, don't they? They used to read each other from across the room in the blink of an eye and even after four years, Aramis hadn't changed overly much. He was still the same smooth-talking, womanizing, devoted bastard Porthos had known for years, but Porthos was the first to admit that war had changed him. War had changed the three of them. d'Artagnan probably the most, but they were all different.
Porthos had mellowed, his boisterous laugh and eternal optimism were contained behind a hard shield that protected him from the horrors of war. His protective nature had been shot into overdrive as soon as he saw the blood running down their Gascon's face after that first battle and he'd kept close to the young man whenever possible. That was one good thing about d'Art's romp with the Spanish – both Athos and Porthos actively kept him close and the young Musketeer didn't bat an eyelash. They'd all had a rude awakening and the need to keep each other close and safe was nearly overpowering. Even as Captain of the regiment, Athos kept his two brothers as close as possible, whenever possible.
Athos had quit drinking excessively, his constant companion in wine no longer as soothing as the presence of his two brothers in his tent sharing a casual glass or two. The days where he woke up hungover were few and far between, especially after those fretful three weeks when he drunk himself into a stupor on more than one occasion after coming to the realization their courageous Gascon had been taken and was likely strung up in some Spanish camp being tortured, even as he drank the last drop of wine in the bottle and fell into a fitful sleep that only lasted a maximum of three hours no matter how much he drank.
d'Artagnan was still his impetuous self, but he thought of the consequences to anything he did. You could see the calculating look in his eyes whenever he received orders – the choice to disobey or obey was no longer black and white. And d'Artagnan had become a master at misconstruing the true meaning of his orders without completely disregarding them; he rarely was faced with such a dilemma but when he was even Athos dared not tempt dissuade him from his chosen course of action. The young man had become volatile on the field, a hero to the young Musketeers and a beacon of hope for the seasoned veterans. He fought like a man possessed, felling enemy soldiers as though they were a nuisance to simply be swatted away. Athos had thought on many occasion that if the two were to fight to the death, Athos would be the one meeting his ancestors and not his young protégé.
The Musketeers rallied around d'Artagnan like they did Athos, but for an entirely different reason. Athos was their leader by title and rank, he was respected and loved by his men. But d'Artagnan was the heart and spirit of the regiment. Just one look into the fiery depths of his eyes and you are swept up in his thirst for justice and love of life. Even after everything he had been through, there was no doubt in any Musketeer's mind that he was the best of them.
But he also became quiet. He wasn't so quick to offer words of praise or correction to the recruits, nor speak up in times of debate between older Musketeers. When he spoke it carried weight and people tended to listen.
On the contrary, Athos had found himself speaking more, delegating tasks, handing out assignments, receiving information, dealing with higher-ups, the list went on. And as the Gascon's voice receded, the swordsman's burst forth with surprising fluidity for a man who had essentially been a functional mute for a good portion of his life.
Aramis had noticed some of these things upon his return to Paris with his beloved brothers, but their new selves were hard to reconcile with the three men he'd parted ways with four years previous.
Even as they mounted their horses, d'Artagnan allowing himself to be placed in front of Porthos, and Nuit to be led by the marksman, it was difficult for Aramis not to miss the outspoken and heard-headed boy who had burst into the garrison demanding Athos' life in reparation for the loss of his father. This d'Artagnan spoke of his injuries freely to Porthos, allowed the older man to help him with things he would have, in the past, fiercely objected to. Aramis had never seen the Gascon submit to riding paired on a horse with any of them unless he was deeply unconscious or likely soon to be.
Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan all accepted the change as if it was nothing, as if the young man had always put his head above his heart. As if it hadn't been beat into him by Spanish thugs that sought information from a downed Musketeer on his own. As if d'Artagnan's sudden shift in priorities was a fact as much as Porthos' previous "I've got you" was.
But they were still the men Aramis loved. They still laughed and joked together. Porthos still got that gleam in his eye every time he bested someone in hand-to-hand, d'Artagnan still had that twinkle of mischief in his eye when he was relaxed and that soft look he reserved only for dear, sweet Constance, and Athos still allowed his smile to broaden whenever he saw his brothers at their antics.
Aramis had missed them, shut away in the monastery, so far from everything, so apart from the world. He'd missed his family, but most of all he had missed Porthos and his infectious grin and generous nature. Now he had to find out if Porthos had it in him to truly forgive him. The words had been spoken after they'd laid in the dirt and laughed about blowing the bridge, but the actions of the three war heroes were so in sync with one another Aramis felt as though he were an outsider all over again searching for a home amongst men who had known each other for lifetimes and had no need of another.
"d'Artagnan!"
Aramis was pulled from his reverie as he heard Constance's worried cry of her husband's name. The marksman looked to where the Gascon slumped against Porthos, relaxed in the larger man's hold. He was pale and drawn, and his eyes were creased with pain, but they opened instantly after hearing his wife's call. Aramis watched in grim consternation as Constance drew closer, waiting for the inevitable flinch from the young man, away from her and into Porthos. But before she even reached them, Constance stopped and twisted her hands in the flowing skirt at her waist, her eyes flickering from Porthos to d'Artagnan. Aramis' jaw dropped slightly.
She knew.
She knew and Aramis hadn't.
God, if she'd known, why was it he hadn't?
There is time for self-recriminations later, Aramis berated himself, slipping from his mount with practiced ease before turning once more to the duo still on horseback. Porthos slid from behind d'Artagnan with fluid grace before swiftly aiding the ailing man from the saddle and onto solid ground, accepting the Gascon's weight as he gathered himself.
Aramis drew closer as Constance's eyes teared, "Are you alright?" she asked lowly.
All of them, save Porthos, were surprised then, when d'Artagnan stepped from the safety Porthos offered and wrapped his arms around his wife without so much as a hesitation.
The question itself was answered with that acceptance and offering of comfort.
Constance buried her head in her husband's neck, silent tears trailing down her delicate cheeks, but a smile on her face. Porthos and Athos both wore matching smiles that threatened to crack their faces in half, content in the knowledge their brother was slowly but surely coming back to them. And Aramis, Aramis realized that no matter how damaged they seemed, the three men who had spent so long at war were more whole now than they ever had been. Because now they were all together again. In Paris. In the garrison. At home.
