Sleight Of Hand

"It was a good trick," Vadim said thoughtfully, coughing before finishing, "It should have worked…"

d'Artagnan hunkered in front of him, studying him. "It almost did." Vadim smiled ruefully, collapsing all at once.

d'Artagnan pushed to his feet, shaking slightly. Aramis automatically stepped up to his side, studying him. "d'Artagnan?"

d'Artagnan waved him off. "I'm just tired."

"I would think so," Aramis agreed, watching him. "We'll take you back to the garrison while Treville sorts out your pardon."

"Oh, yes, I forgot I was wanted for duelling," d'Artagnan murmured. Looking up, he added "Garrison?"

"Safest place for you." Aramis patted him on the shoulder; the contact wasn't enough for him, but d'Artagnan was jittery enough right now. "It won't be for long. Once you're pardoned, we'll explain to the Bonacieux."

"Bonacieux," d'Artagnan repeated, looking at him – and seeing him for the first time. "Aramis, I need something."

"You need food and rest."

"My rosary," d'Artagnan continued firmly. "It's at the Bonacieux house. I need it. Please."

"You can borrow mine," Aramis offered.

"No," d'Artagnan said sharply, swaying for a moment until he caught himself. "Sorry," he added more quietly. "It's a family heirloom, it's my mother's. I haven't prayed on any other in years. Please, Aramis."

"All right," Aramis agreed, taking the moment to brush some hair from d'Artagnan's eyes. The Gascon blinked but let him do it, and Aramis used the contact to Read what he needed. Sore ribs, torn wrists, completely exhausted mentally and physically; nothing that wouldn't heal, but he could See enough to know the rosary was important and for whatever reason d'Artagnan wouldn't rest properly without it. "Where is it?"

"The Bonacieux house, in my room. Constance knows it, she'll get it for you."

Aramis whistled softly. "Sadly, I will be very busy tending to you, so I shan't be able to go."

"You're just afraid of getting slapped again," d'Artagnan muttered, and then bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

"She has a mighty arm, your landlady," Aramis said lightly, glancing up for Athos' attention. He nodded quietly. He'd seen it.

"I'll go," Porthos offered. "She might not slap me."

"Good luck," Aramis told him. "We'll be at the garrison."

Porthos nodded, glancing at d'Artagnan. "Quick as I can," he promised. d'Artagnan smiled gratefully and Porthos headed off.

"Come on," Athos said with a sigh, turning to d'Artagnan. "Let's get you back to the garrison."

He reached for d'Artagnan's arm; d'Artagnan recoiled so sharply he almost over balanced. "I don't need help," he said when he was steady again.

"I beg to differ."

Athos reached for him again; d'Artagnan backed away again. "Don't. I'm fine."

"Don't," Aramis said under his breath. He didn't know exactly what was happening, but d'Artagnan was distressed and getting worse the longer they stood here, and he didn't want Athos making it worse.

Athos scowled, studying d'Artagnan. "Your knees buckle even once, you're taking my help."

d'Artagnan turned, heading back into the tunnels. His knees were locked straight as he walked.

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Brilliant, Athos, give him a stagger as well."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing serious physically. Mentally, emotionally…" He shook his head. "He's too tired for me to make much out of it. I'll need to try again once he's rested. Luckily, he'll need tending."

They followed d'Artagnan through the tunnels and out into a street. d'Artagnan didn't fall, but he was stumbling by the time they reached the garrison. Aramis swept him inside and into his own room without stopping to acknowledge anyone they passed; Athos, behind him, had to deal with all of that.

d'Artagnan sank onto the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands dangle. "Now what?" he asked quietly.

"I'd like to look at your wrists, if I may." He wasn't always this careful, this wary, but d'Artagnan had been restrained and Aramis wasn't going to touch him without permission. Not until he was a little steadier.

d'Artagnan studied them for a moment. "Yes."

"Thank you." Aramis settled on the floor in front of him, carefully rolling up the sleeves to examine the torn flesh. "Well, that's not so bad," he murmured, sending a thread of power into it. He couldn't risk doing too much, or d'Artagnan might notice, but he soothed some of the pain and started the healing process going.

He washed and wrapped the wrists carefully, keeping one hand on d'Artagnan at all times to keep the pain down. d'Artagnan was tense and unhappy, but he didn't object at any point. He had his eyes closed and his lips were moving silently by the time Aramis finished.

"d'Artagnan," he murmured. "May I look at your ribs?"

d'Artagnan's eyes flickered open and he blinked once or twice. "What?"

"Ribs," Aramis repeated. "You're protecting them."

d'Artagnan looked down at his own hunched posture. "Yes," he said eventually.

"Focus," Aramis said softly, passing just a little energy to him to help. "May I look at them?"

d'Artagnan bit his lip. More blood, and Aramis twitched with the need to take care of it. "Where's Porthos?"

"Not here yet. He won't be long. Ribs?"

"They aren't that bad…"

"Then this won't take long."

d'Artagnan gave up, leaning carefully back to rest on his hands. Aramis moved to sit on the edge of the bed, carefully raising d'Artagnan's tunic to study him. "You'll be stiff for a while," he murmured, running one hand lightly over the rising bruises. "Turn," he added, and d'Artagnan leaned to one side enough for Aramis to see his back.

One rib cracked in the back – Aramis strengthened it – and more bruising. He sent gentle heat into d'Artagnan, relaxing the muscles and easing the strain. The bruises he left alone – they were inconvenient, but not dangerous, and no matter how much he wanted to help d'Artagnan he couldn't risk raising any suspicions. The boy was too clever not to notice if the bruising suddenly vanished. The pain would be minimal now that he'd eased the muscles.

Someone knocked at the door; Aramis glanced over without letting go of d'Artagnan. "Who's there?"

" S'me," Porthos answered. d'Artagnan looked up eagerly, shifting to pull his tunic down. Aramis sat back, calling Porthos to come in.

d'Artagnan was already reaching out before Porthos even got inside; chuckling faintly, he pulled a small pouch from his belt. "Madame Bonacieux kept it on her to keep it safe from her husband," he said, passing over the pouch.

d'Artagnan dropped it.

"Sorry," he muttered, staring down at it. Aramis couldn't read his expression, but he thought maybe he looked surprised. "Gripped it wrong."

Aramis leaned down to scoop it up, opening the pouch. "Hand," he ordered, and when d'Artagnan held out his hand he tipped the rosary carefully out. d'Artagnan's fingers closed around it and Aramis could feel him relax from a foot away.

"Do you want me to pray with you?" he offered quietly, tucking the pouch absently into his pocket. d'Artagnan blinked at him, frowning, and he added, "Some people like to pray alone, some people like to pray with others."

"An' if you want to pray with someone, Aramis's your best bet," Porthos added.

d'Artagnan shook his head slowly. "I haven't – prayed with others in a long time. And I pray in Gascon, mostly. Thank you, though."

"Of course." Aramis rested one hand on the boy's shoulder as he stood, thumb brushing the side of his neck, checking one last time for any damage he'd missed. Nothing; only exhaustion. "Food or sleep?"

"Sleep. Please."

"Good. Get some rest. When you're ready, come down to the courtyard, we'll get you fed."

d'Artagnan nodded. His fingers were moving restlessly over the beads. "Thank you."

Aramis bowed lightly. "Of course. If you need anything else, call out. Someone will be around." He turned, waving Porthos to leave.

Athos was waiting outside, hat tipped down over his eyes. "Well?" he asked when they appeared.

"He's sleeping, or he will be shortly. Wrapped his wrists, eased his muscles, cleared up a cracked rib. He'll be sore. I think he was a lot closer to the explosion than we were." Glancing around, he added, "Anyone need me?"

Athos shook his head. "Bruises. Nothing I would waste your talents on, and they'll heal once I sleep anyway."

"I'm fine," Porthos agreed. "Should worry about him."

Aramis nodded, stretching tiredly. Small injuries like d'Artagnan's didn't tire him, but they did make him a little fuzzy. "I should eat. One of you stay nearby? I promised d'Artagnan we wouldn't go far."

"I will," Athos agreed. Porthos nodded, steering Aramis down towards the courtyard so they could eat.

Inside, d'Artagnan's fingers moved along the beads, soaking in the familiar feelings, using them as the foundation to rebuild on. He could feel Aramis and Porthos moving away, and Athos staying where he was, calm patience and determination.

He hadn't been so drained in a long time. He was learning Paris, learning how to use the city and the Musketeers in his shields, but away from everything and everyone he knew he'd had a lot of trouble. The Chatelet had been awful, far worse than he'd been expecting; the sheer weight of grief and anger and fear and guilt and pain had almost brought him to his knees when they dragged him in. The manacles on his wrists were well used, and he'd had to concentrate to keep from feeling the noose slide shut around his neck. He'd been forced to weave thick shields far sooner than he'd been expecting to.

Vadim was known to accept those with Abilities into his gang, despite the restrictions imposed by the law; without knowing if anyone there could read him, and to protect himself, d'Artagnan had expected to need shields. The day and night in the Chatelet first had drained him badly, and keeping the shields in place while with Vadim was worse. It meant he'd read blank to anyone who was trying to Read him, but there were some naturally shielded people, it shouldn't have raised suspicions on its' own.

The downside of creating and maintaining such tight shields, though, was that once they went down, it was almost impossible to get any kind of shield back up. The rosary beads helped. They were an heirloom, and they had been his mother's; d'Artagnan couldn't remember a time he hadn't known the feel of the beads in his fingers. Holding them gave him a sense of peace and made it easier to block everything else out. He started murmuring the prayers, concentrating on his breathing and on the feeling of home and safety the beads gave him.

He fell asleep at some point and woke to a wave of concern breaking over him. He shoved Aramis' hand away from his, scrambling to sit up.

"My apologies," Aramis murmured. "I didn't mean to wake you. I wanted to check your wrists."

d'Artagnan nodded. "Yes. Just let me wake up."

"You can go back to sleep, I don't need you to be awake for this."

"No. I'm hungry now."

"A good sign," Aramis said brightly. d'Artagnan blinked, wondering vaguely why Aramis was irritated, and why he was hiding it. "How do you feel?"

"Grimy. Can I wash up?"

"Mind your bandages, but yes. There's clean water at your door."

d'Artagnan wrapped his rosary around his wrist absentmindedly, crossing to pick up the bucket. He splashed his face and ran handfuls of water through his hair while answering Aramis' questions about his general health. He badly wanted a proper bath, but this would do for now.

Drawing on the peace he'd found last night, he pulled a shield into place against Aramis' touch. "I'm ready."

Aramis slumped at the table, waving to Serge. "d'Artagnan's on his way down."

"Did you find out what you wanted?" Athos asked.

"He woke up before I could." Aramis laid his hands on the table in front of himself, studying the palms.

"How is he?" Porthos asked.

Aramis didn't answer, staring at his hands. Athos frowned, leaning forward. "Aramis."

Aramis startled. "What?"

"You all right?" Porthos asked.

Aramis frowned thoughtfully at him, holding out a hand. Porthos stripped off his glove without hesitation, clasping his hand. They tried not to touch Aramis unless he initiated it, but they knew the signs; sometimes he needed to touch someone, though he'd never been able to properly explain why.

"I'm fine," Aramis said belatedly, staring at their clasped hands.

"And the boy?"

"The boy," he echoed softly.

Athos shifted so he could see the dorm entrance. "Talk. And talk quickly, before he comes down."

Aramis grimaced. "Yesterday when I read him, I Saw minor injuries, exhaustion, fear, and a fixation on that rosary."

"More or less what I'd expect after a mission like that one," Athos agreed.

"Today there are injuries and nothing else."

Porthos shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"He's blocking me." The outraged tone might have been funny, in other circumstances.

Athos leaned forward, one eye still on the door d'Artagnan would use. "Deliberately?"

Aramis shook his head. "I can't say for certain. Some people do have strong natural shields; it's not classed as an Ability, since most of them never even know about it. If we had a telepath or an empath in the garrison, we could find out for sure. But it's far beyond my abilities."

Athos straightened as d'Artagnan emerged from the dorm. "Say nothing, either of you," he murmured. "We will wait and see. Good afternoon," he added more loudly.

"Good afternoon," d'Artagnan replied, sitting when Porthos waved at a seat.

"Serge is bringing you something to eat," Athos told him. "And then we will make things right with M Bonacieux."

"Thank you," d'Artagnan said in surprise.

Porthos grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, lad, soon as that's over he's planning to beat you at swords again."

"Oh, good. That's more like normal." d'Artagnan grinned at Athos' look, turning to thank Serge as he brought a tray of food.

Aramis caught Athos' eye, and he shrugged. There was nothing to do but wait and see what happened.