A/N: So apparently I'm now committed to this AU and am going to continue it.
Whoops.
Anyway, far warning for y'all: I have no clue what I'm doing. Absolutely no clue. I am not a writer, I am not a psychologist, I am not a historian, I am not a writer. As such, this story may suck in places (especially since this is mostly written for fun in order to give me a break from other stories I'm working on). The fic is also not betaread, because this story is garbage and I don't want to waste my beta's time with it, plus I feel bad for forcing them to read it. So this fic has a lot going against it, and it may suck. Capisce?
Good.
Now, I think that's enough whining, so on to the story.
(Although...one last thing before we begin: thank you for the wonderful encouragement in the form of reviews, follows, and faves. I really, really appreciate the fact that you took the time to do so. Thank you for taking the time to make a simple author very happy.)
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's "The Musketeers" in any shape or form.
Seven Months Later
Aramis opened his eyes with a groan, and instantly regretted it.
Contrary to popular belief, the marksman was no pansy, and was perfectly capable of 'roughing it' when needed. He was no stranger to sleeping in forests and fields, riding or walking every day for hours at a time, pushing onwards to complete the mission even when injured. In brief, he was far from being some sort of sensitive weakling, no matter how many people insisted on underestimating him.
However, even a weary soul like him, infinitely patient towards all forms of hardship, balked slightly at the prospect of being stuck for any amount of time in a dungeon with only his two closest friends and a Red Guard for company. The fact that he was chained to a wall, had a horrendous headache, and was covered in scratches and bruises was only a bonus.
Instinctively, he allowed his analytical gaze to travel over the still-unconscious forms of his two friends, searching for any injuries that may require his attention. Thankfully, they appeared relatively unharmed, apart from each sporting a nasty head wound that he strongly suspected he had sustained as well. There were bruises and scratches on both of them, of course, but nothing terribly serious.
Last of all, he glanced at the Red Guard, intending to perform merely a cursory examination. Instead, his gaze lingered, the marksman momentarily shocked.
He hadn't seen it before, the Red Guard's helmet concealing the fact, but now that he was without his helmet Aramis could see just how young the man looked. For heaven's sake, he couldn't be older than twenty at the most. He was barely an adult and had no business being a soldier.
Suddenly concerned, Aramis began to check the young man more thoroughly for injuries. Long-time feud notwithstanding, he would not be responsible for the death of a kid simply because he'd been negligent, Red Guard or no.
His examination was not for nothing. Whoever had been gracious enough to leave the Inseparables relatively unharmed had unfortunately not allowed the young man the same courtesy. The kid's bruises were far more severe than those of his three cellmates, and he had somehow received a nasty wound to his left thigh that bled sluggishly yet persistently. Judging by the queer pallor of his tanned skin, the young man had been bleeding for quite some time.
Dammit.
He needed to bind the injury, and fast, or else the kid would die.
The medic rapidly slid out of his doublet, his movements only slightly hampered by the manacles, and swiftly removed his linen shirt before wrapping the leather doublet back around himself. With a few brisk movements, he ripped the shirt into several long strips to form makeshift bandages.
Hardly the most sanitary, but it would have to do, he supposed.
The problem of procuring bandages now solved, he found himself tasked with the difficulty of binding the injury. The young man was chained to another wall in the opposite corner of the room, and Aramis would not be able to reach him. Nor would either of his two friends if they were awake.
Which meant that the kid would have to bandage his injury himself, and he would have to be awake for that.
Decision reached, Aramis attempted to wake the man. "Boy!"
No answer. Aramis bit his lip and tried again. "Boy, wake up!"
Nothing. Athos stirred a little, his forehead creasing slightly, but the young man didn't move an inch. He'd have to try something else.
An idea coming to mind, Aramis picked up a nearby pebble before flicking it at the kid. It flew through the air and bounced off the man's forehead, eliciting no response. Aramis tried once, twice, three times without any reaction, and began to quietly despair.
Then, on the fourth stone, the kid winced.
A fifth, and he stirred. A sixth, and he shuddered. A seventh, an eighth, a ninth, and at last brown eyes began to flicker open.
The young man slowly looked around himself, his gaze filled with confusion, bewilderment, and hints of annoyance and pain. Aramis waited until he was looking at him before speaking, his voice stern. "You're badly hurt."
The man blinked dazedly for a few moments before apparently coming to a realization. "...Were you throwing stones at me?"
"...Maybe."
"Why?"
"Because you're hurt and you need to wrap your wound before you bleed to death. These," Aramis held up the torn remains of his shirt, "should suit the purpose just fine."
He chucked them at the man, the bandages colliding with the kid's chest and tumbling into his lap. The man stared at them for a long moment.
"...Was this a shirt?"
"Quite the observant one, aren't you."
The man blinked, looking somewhat like a confused puppy. "...Clairemont was right, you musketeers are crazy."
"I resent that comment. Now, wrap that cloth around your leg before it's too late."
The man languidly began to do as Aramis asked, his movements sloppy and uncoordinated, doubtlessly as a result of his extensive blood loss, and Aramis found himself itching to rip the fabric from his incompetent fingers and bandage the wound properly. Unfortunately, however, that wasn't exactly an option, and he was forced to watch as the man messily wound the torn remains of the shirt around his leg.
Indisposed as he was, however, the man did as well as could be expected of him under the circumstances. At least the gash wasn't leaking blood quite so heavily anymore.
Aramis glanced towards his brothers, noticing to his displeasure that they were still unconscious despite the racket that he and the man had been making. It was really quite worrisome, they should have woken up by now-
"Um…"
Aramis turned his gaze on the man. "Yes?"
The kid seemed to ponder a little. "...Why did you help me?"
"What, no 'thank you'?" Aramis shot back flippantly. A part of his mind wondered why he was bantering so easily with a Red Guard, but he ignored it. "But, to answer your question, I don't enjoy watching people die in front of me when I can do something about it."
The man frowned. "But helping me doesn't benefit you in any way," he pointed out. "To you, it's a waste of bandages. Bandages which you could otherwise use to help your brothers."
Aramis gritted his teeth. "My brothers aren't in danger of dying, boy. And I'm sure a Red Guard would have difficulty understanding such a concept, but I happen to want to help people, not let them die alone in dungeons."
The man flinched, then frowned. "I...don't understand. You're helping an enemy. Someone who presumably wouldn't mind seeing you dead and buried. Why?"
Aramis shrugged. "Because, I'm a musketeer. It's what we do."
"I thought you only helped each other. Not Red Guards that you hate."
"Well, looks like you learned something today."
The man tried to glare at Aramis, and the marksman grinned. The kid was too tired to muster an actual glare and was resorting to narrowing his eyes, and it was honestly rather adorable. He looked like a puppy that was trying and failing to be intimidating.
"...Stop laughing at me."
Aramis' grin immediately vanished. The kid sounded honestly hurt. "Is something wrong, boy?"
The man flinched again. "Don't call me that. Please."
The medic stared. "Alright, I won't. But may I ask why?"
The man seemed to be debating answering. Eventually, he sighed and slumped tiredly. "The other Red Guards call me that, because I'm young. I hate it."
"...I see," a question came to mind, "speaking of which, how did you become a Red Guard so young?"
The kid shrugged before yawning, exhaustion and blood loss finally catching up to him. "It wasn't easy. I had to prove myself to them before they let me in."
"Prove yourself?"
He nodded, slowly slumping to the ground. "...Yes. Had to...to duel three of them. At the same time."
"And?"
He grinned, a vicious, feral expression. "Killed two, badly injured the third."
Aramis raised an eyebrow. "Impressive."
"They seemed to think so too. Let me in. Still treat me like a kid, though, I don't like it."
The marksman nodded. "I can see why."
The man made an affirmative sort of noise, his eyes slipping closed as he began to fall asleep. Just before the darkness claimed him, he seemed to remember something. "...Hey, what's your name?"
"Aramis. And you?"
"...D'Artagnan."
A/N: So...I'm not sure how well I did? I mean, I tried, but...damaged!d'Art is just difficult to write in general, because he keeps switching between overly guarded and remarkably open/childlike. So far I'm trying to keep the childlike portions for when he's weak/vulnerable, but I'm not sure how well I'm doing or even if he'd ever act childlike. I'm not exactly a psychologist.
I...may have bitten off slightly more than I can chew. Maybe.
But I'll try anyways, because I like this AU. So there.
Also, Aramis is awesome and I love him.
Au revoir.
