Summary: Aramis had witnessed worse. Far worse. But that didn't make seeing the evidences of violence on his friend any easier. Tag to S02E02, "An Ordinary Man"
Author's Notes: As I was too furious with Aramis to write any good comfort after S02E03, I have gone back to Episode 2, "An Ordinary Man".
Hopefully, this will please SupernaturalGeek and I will get a review so long and detailed that is will be "truncated due to length". I do so love those. :)
I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.
After the Dauphin's baptism, Aramis did not fail to notice the grimace that tore across Porthos' face as he swung down from his horse.
"What is it?"
"Nothin'." Aramis slid his eyes over Porthos and then to Athos.
Athos didn't say anything, but he needn't. It was clear from his expression that Aramis was a fool if he believed Porthos.
"Just stiff, that's all."
"From?"
"King wanted an ordinary night out. Wanted some fun." Porthos shrugged, even as he winced. "Bar fights 'ave been known to be fun."
"There was a fight," said Aramis slowly. "Before the brawl the King started?"
"Purely sportin'." Porthos grimaced. "Until it wasn't." Aramis looked between Porthos and Athos.
"You fought. For the King's pleasure?" Athos looked troubled and Porthos was suddenly very interested in unbuckling his tack.
When the big man tried to lift the saddle from his horse, a sound of pain ground from between his teeth.
"Porthos, stop." Aramis took over and slid the saddle off and onto its rack. He took a deep breath, pushing down the simmering anger.
The way he'd been standing hunched. His shortened temper. Porthos had been in pain.
And Aramis hadn't realized.
When he turned back, Athos was at Porthos' side, studying him with sharp, green eyes.
"Go." He glanced at Aramis. "You too."
"It's nothing," repeated Porthos with a growl.
"It's been a long day," replied Athos calmly. "We've all earned a night off."
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Aramis closed the door to his room and went about removing his gloves and doublet.
"Well, off with it," he said conversationally. "Let's see the damage." Porthos grumbled under his breath, but obliged, shedding his weapons, doublet, and shirt. When he turned, his chin was out and up, no weakness to be seen.
Porthos' chest, stomach, and sides were a mottled mess of black and blue. Marks the shapes of fingers curled around his arms. Aramis had witnessed worse. Far worse. But that didn't make seeing the evidences of violence on his friend any easier.
No matter how proudly Porthos would wear them.
He motioned Porthos to sit on the bed and pulled out a jar of bay laurel oil. Aramis warmed some between his palms and knelt next to Porthos.
Porthos' breath caught as Aramis worked the oil into the worst of the bruising. Aramis let his focus blur, preferring to rely on his sense of touch.
The skin beneath his hands was too warm, but from trauma, not fever. The muscles were tight and corded, but loosened as he worked. No bones shifted under pressure.
"I don't think you have any broken ribs."
"Woulda been a lot harder to sit a horse the last two days if I had." Porthos' voice was light, unconcerned. The nonchalance bothered Aramis and it must have shown.
"What?" asked Porthos.
"I don't like seeing you hurt."
"It's nothin'," said Porthos firmly. "Been way worse off than this many times. Which you know, better'n most. What's really on your mind?"
Aramis let his hands continue their course, over scars old and bruises new.
"I don't like seeing you hurt for the King's amusement," Aramis amended finally.
"I knew what I was doin'," said Porthos.
Aramis surged to his feet, no longer able to contain the bubbling ire.
"Did you? This?!" cried Aramis, gesturing to the colors marring Porthos' brown skin. "Did you let the other man land some hits? To make it more exciting? Because we both know not many manage this much damage in a fair fight against you." Aramis paced a way and then back. "For the King's...entertainment!? You're not a gladiator, Porthos. Isn't it enough we'll probably die in his service? He shouldn't enjoy it. Your pain is not for sport."
Porthos looked up at him, dark eyes wide and startled.
"Seemed easier to keep him outta trouble if he was watchin' me," answered Porthos after a long pause. He looked down at his hands before giving Aramis a lopsided grin. "He cheered for me."
That was all it took for Aramis' anger to boil away to fondness. Of course all Porthos remembered was that his King had clapped and called his name as he fought.
Praise and glory.
"As he should," Aramis said as he knelt on the bed, adding more oil and digging his thumbs into the knots he found in Porthos' shoulders.
"It wasn't all him. You know a like a good fight," said Porthos.
"I do," acknowledged Aramis. "I understand."
When Aramis could find no more tension in the broad shoulders, he gently pushed Porthos back into the pillows. He took one of Porthos' large hands in his, gently working oil into the swollen knuckles and thick callouses.
Porthos didn't need to be coddled. But it was telling, that he allowed it.
"Where were you?"
Aramis glanced up through his hair. Porthos blinked at him sleepily.
"That night. Where were you?"
There was no anger, no accusation. Just genuine curiosity.
Aramis could find blame enough on his own.
Who's to say it would have been any different. That there wouldn't have been a brawl, that d'Artagnan and the King still wouldn't have been taken, that they would have never discovered the abductions. Who's to say?
He wasn't there. But he should have been.
"There is a new lady," answered Aramis carefully. "I am...trying...to be more discreet than I have been in the past."
Porthos studied him and then nodded.
"Nothin' wrong with that, I suppose." He settled deeper into the mattress with a slow sigh. He closed his eyes and chuckled softly. "You. Discreet."
Aramis might have been offended.
But the smile was still on Porthos' lips as he began to snore lightly.