AN - My feeling is the that choice to go with the cloak as a costume for Athos in this episode was to give him a slightly more 'noble' air - but also to physically set him apart from the other musketeers - without his leathers and pauldron perhaps being a bit less "Athos" and a bit more "Olivier".
But I wanted to find a way to bring him back into the fold. So, this is the result.
Athos' first thought was that his mouth felt as dry as dust. That in itself wasn't unusual. When he had drunk to excess he rarely even recalled, never mind acted upon, Aramis' sage advice to take at least a cup or two of water before retiring. Although, the fact that he appeared to be lying on a table was rather more unexpected. However, he was pleased to discover that the vicious pounding in his head had receded to a dull sort of throb.
For some reason he knew that this was important. But he couldn't for the life of him recall why.
"Hey," D'Artagnan's voice said gently from his left. "You awake again?"
Athos rolled his head slightly so he that could see the younger man. Realising as he did so that a blanket, which smelt comfortingly of horse, had been folded up for a makeshift pillow and a surprisingly soft, dark blue, blanket was draped over him, although, it was a little short, so that his feet stuck out somewhat at the end, which probably explained why no one had bothered to take off his boots.
In the flickering candle light d'Artagnan looked exhausted. His eyes were dark and serious and his features lined with worry, so that he looked far older than his years.
Athos frowned. He didn't seem to be bleeding. No bones appeared broken. Merely some soreness and he suspected some spectacular bruising, nothing to explain why d'Artagnan looked like he had not slept.
"I was awake .." He coughed a little over his dry throat and the last word came out as something of a croak. "before?"
"A few times," d'Artagnan told him with a small smile, as he reached over and picked up a cup, helping Athos to drink. "Each time you've been awake a little longer."
"It was daylight last time," Athos realised. He tried to blink the elusive memory into focus. "Porthos told me .. something?"
He looked to d'Artagnan for clarification, but the Gascon shook his head regretfully. "Aramis says it's better if we let you piece things together in your own time. Do you know where you are?"
That question provoked a kaleidoscope of memories, none of them good, each swirling and vying for his attention. He resisted the urge to bang his head against the table. He doubted it would help matters.
"Pinon." He sighed. "Renard."
"That's right," d'Artagnan's face brightened with something like hope. "That's the first time you've remembered Renard. That has to be a good sign, doesn't it?"
"As oppose to what?" Athos asked curiously.
He was not prepared for the way d'Artagnan's face fell, nor for how he was suddenly reluctant to meet his gaze. Realising that the young man's throat was working convulsively, a sure sign he was trying to hold back tears, Athos could not help but feel he was missing something important.
"D'Artagnan?"
It took a little more effort than he expected to lift his arm and he found himself patting rather clumsily at d'Artagnan's shoulder, rather than the firm grip he had intended. But the attempt at comfort seemed to rally the younger man. D'Artagnan swiped impatiently at his tears and turned back to him with a rueful smile.
"Sorry, I'm supposed to be the one looking after you," He gave Athos' hand a grateful squeeze and then placed it gently back on his stomach, before changing the subject. "Aramis said the next time you woke up you should try to eat something. Porthos made soup."
"Soup?" Athos' lips quirked. "Not mushroom, I hope. I don't think my head could stand the visions just now."
"No," d'Artagnan grinned. "It's onion. I had some earlier. It's good. I could fetch you a bowl?"
"Porthos made onion soup?" Athos went very still.
"You look like hell."
Slumped over the table in the Garrison courtyard Athos could barely raise the energy to life his head, but he felt a tired smile tug at his lips at the affection underlying the blunt words as Porthos dropped into the seat opposite him. His face creased with concern.
"It's merely dirt," Athos assured him. "We were required to take a small detour."
Porthos huffed a small laugh at the significant understatement. Only Athos would call being attacked and forced off the roads, required to travel hard and fast over rough ground, barely sleeping in an effort to keep one step ahead of their pursuers, frequently going hungry as they tried to eek out rations meant for a few days over a much longer period, before they eventually arrived back at the Garrison more than a week overdue, a 'small detour'.
"Gave us a right scare you did," Porthos scolded. His tone was mild but his eyes were serious. "Aramis and I ain't minded to let you out of our sight ever again."
Athos ducked his head a little at the fond sentiment. Bastian and Le Blanc were fine Musketeers who had done their duty admirably under difficult conditions. But Athos had found himself thinking wistfully, of Porthos' gruff kindness and Aramis' unrelenting good humour. The two men had proved a balm to his battered soul and he had felt their absence like an ache.
"I would not willingly subject any man to such hardships," He managed. "But your company was sorely missed."
"I'm guessing it was pretty rough, huh?" Porthos' large, warm, hand settled gently over his own, as if to protect him from all the ills of the world. "How long since you last ate anything?"
There had been no time to hunt or fish. No chance to call at a farm for provision, even the bounty of the countryside had been denied them as their pursuers relentlessly forced them onwards. Rations meant for three days simply could not be stretched to providing sustenance for a week or more.
"Two days." Athos admitted.
"Two days with nothing at all and I bet you were giving yourself short rations before that so the others could eat," Porthos said astutely. "Would you mind a bit of friendly advice?"
"Not at all."
"Probably best not to eat that," Porthos nodded at Athos' fully laden plate. "After so long without a proper meal your stomach won't manage it, either you'll spend all night throwing it back up or you'll be doubled over with stomach cramps."
"I see," Athos considered that. Truth be told the smell of the rich food was making him feel a little nauseous. And he knew enough about Porthos' background to realise the man was probably speaking from bitter experience. "What would you suggest?"
""Your body is all but spent. It needs something light to build your strength back up, gradual like,"Porthos said decisively. "Some eggs perhaps or maybe some soup."
It turned out that Serge had nothing like that to hand. Musketeer tastes tending towards more hearty fare. Porthos had scowled and clicked his tongue before pushing Athos into a chair and tucking a blanket around him, rather firmly Athos thought, feeling slightly startled, but oddly touched by the gesture.
"I'd take you to a tavern I know but you already look done in," Porthos told him. "You take a nap and this'll be ready when you wake up."
Athos had half-imagined he was too hungry to sleep, given the gnawing pain in his belly, but lulled by the warmth of the fire and the soft sounds Porthos made, humming to himself as he moved around the kitchen, slicing the onions finely into similar sized pieces so they would cook evenly, slowly, gently, caramelising them, to bring out the flavour, adding the garlic and wine and a good stock and patiently letting it simmer to perfection, he must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew he was looking down at the bowl of onion soup in his lap, as Porthos pressed a spoon into his hand.
Athos thought it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.
"You're only saying that because you're half-starved." Porthos laughed when he told him so.
"I think it has more to do with an ingredient which has rarely featured in the dishes placed before me." Athos admitted quietly.
"Get over," Porthos shook his head. "There's nothing fancy in this."
"I rather meant," Athos could feel the tips of his ears turning pink and he worried he was making a sentimental fool of himself. "Never mind, thank you for your kindness. I'll bid you a good night."
And that might have been that, as he forced himself to his feet and headed a little unsteadily towards the door. But when he had almost reached the threshold Porthos' voice stopped him.
"Athos, is it so hard for you to believe that you're loved?"
He had been forced to close his eyes against the wash of painful memories and could only manage one single, solitary word in reply, utterly raw in its honesty.
"Yes."
"I see," Porthos said levelly. Then his footsteps crossed the room until he was standing beside him. He put his arm around Athos' back and then lifted Athos' arm so it was draped across his broad shoulders. "Well, I guess we'll have to work on that, eh?"
"He was worried about you," d'Artagnan bit his lip. "We all were."
Athos frowned as he took in the Gascon's troubled expression. Becoming more aware of his surroundings he glanced to his right and saw Aramis sitting slumped over the table in his shirtsleeves, his face lined with worry even as he slept, resting his forehead on Athos' thigh. Athos' brow furrowed, instinctively knowing something wasn't quite right with that picture, something he understood should worry him, but try as he might the reason escaped him.
Looking to his left he wasn't surprised to see Porthos with his chair tipped back against the wall and his stocking feet resting snugly on Athos' calf as he snored softly. Athos smiled fondly wishing, not for the first time, that he could emulate his friend's knack of sleeping anytime, anywhere. But then Porthos turned his head slightly so that the candle light fell across his face and Athos could clearly see the dried tracks of tears on his cheeks, as if he had been crying in his sleep.
Worried now, Athos pushed himself up to a sitting position, resolutely ignoring the muted protests of his head and body, only to feel something unfamiliar slide across his chest. He felt a flash of fear, surely not? But a second glance at Aramis confirmed his suspicions, even before he carefully pushed down the soft woollen blanket to see the man's beloved gold crucifix hanging around his own neck.
"He never said he had given you that." D'Artagnan sounded a bit shaken.
"Exactly how long was I unconscious?" Athos managed.
"Too long," D'Artagnan told him, his heart in his eyes.
Athos was fairly certain that he didn't want to dwell too much on the idea that he friends had clearly feared he was on the brink of death. He couldn't say he felt particularly good. But he could discern no real cause for alarm. He was certain that he could fight if he had to and ..
His head snapped up.
"My sword."
"It's alright, the villagers kept it safe," d'Artagnan assured him. He nodded to the wall behind him and turning his head Athos could see the familiar hilt propped up beside d'Artagnan's own. "Aramis checked the blade over himself."
"I shall remember to thank him later."
Now that he was sitting up, Athos decided he might as well see what else he might accomplish. Swinging his feet around, the bench d'Artagnan was sitting on made a convenient footstool, as he perched on the edge of the table and took a moment to assess his situation.
"Do you have my jacket?" He plucked at the cloth now pooling in his lap. "Or must I go about wrapped in this blanket like an invalid?"
"Um, that's not a blanket," d'Artagnan looked torn between amusement and a faint concern that Athos' facilities were still impaired. He flipped up an edge to show a row of large, ornate, buttons. "It's a cloak."
"So, it is," Athos frowned at it. He didn't recognise it.
"I didn't know how things might be when we found you," d'Artagnan said by way of explanation. "But we had already invaded your privacy by looking at the letters. It didn't seem right to go digging around in your press just to bring you a clean shirt."
Athos appreciated the sentiment. In common with most of the regiment he used his press to store his most personal items, as well as his valuables, in addition to his clothes. As soldiers it was generally the only lockable space they had.
"But I remembered how grateful I was for your cloak when I was taken captive at Calais," d'Artagnan coloured a little at the memory, but forged on bravely. "I wanted to be prepared."
Athos felt a flash of surprise. D'Artagnan had been barely conscious when he had gently wrapped his naked body in his boat cloak and carried him out of that warehouse in Calais, the blood of the man who had beaten him still fresh on his blade. He hadn't thought d'Artagnan would remember any of it.
Now Athos imagined the younger man, haunted by visions of finding him, similarly bruised and battered, or perhaps shaking with fever, carefully folding up the cloak and packing it into his saddle bag, in the hope of being able to bring a little comfort to the man he loved as a brother.
The thoughtfulness of that act almost undid him.
"It is a fine cloak," Athos ran his fingers speculatively over the sleeve. The soft wool and really rather excessive number of buttons spoke of a quality garment kept with loving care. Far better than anything he would have expected the former Gascon farm boy to own. He raised a gently inquisitive brow. "I don't believe I have ever seen you wear it."
"It was my father's," d'Artagnan surprised him. "The one he kept for best. He was carrying it in his saddle bag when we rode to Paris to petition the King. He planned to wear it to the Palace. It is the only thing, besides his sword that I have left of him."
Athos stiffened. He was acutely aware that his shirt was already streaked with dirt and sweat. He also had a dreadful suspicion that his bladder might have betrayed him at least once whilst he was unconscious. Although any direct evidence had blessedly long since been dried he was hardly fragrant. And certainly not fit to be wearing such a precious garment.
"Don't," d'Artagnan forestalled any protest as he simply picked up the cloak and helped Athos slide his arms into it, carefully smoothing the soft material across his back. "It wasn't doing anyone any good just folded up in a press."
Athos' look said very clearly that d'Artagnan had spent the early part of their acquaintance in a well-worn leather cloak which, in Athos' opinion had been barely fit for purpose, his pride causing him to resist all of his friend's efforts to provide something better, when all the time he could have been getting good use out of this. Clearly, he had cherished its sentimental value too much to sully it.
"Please, just wear it," d'Artagnan gave one of those gentle lop-sided smiles that Athos found himself all but powerless to refuse. "It will make me feel better?"
"Very well," Athos conceded.
He pulled the cloak a little more firmly around him, pleased to find that the slight tremors in his hands did not prevent him from managing the, admittedly unusually large, buttons. That done he steeled himself against the inevitable discomfort and forced stiff and aching muscles to do his will until he was standing up on his own two feet.
"Alright?" d'Artagnan asked quietly.
"I .. believe so," Athos nodded. He smoothed a hand across the folds of cloth. "It's a good fit."
"I'm glad," d'Artagnan tipped his head on one side. "Do you think you could manage some of that soup now?"
Without waiting for an answer he moved towards the fire, ladling out two bowlfuls and bringing them back to the table. He gave Athos an encouraging smile, as he passed him a spoon, before sitting down opposite to dig into his own meal.
"D'Artagnan?"
The Gascon stilled, with his spoon in mid-air, glancing up from his bowl to see what Athos wanted. Rather than speak his brother simply reached across the table to cup his cheek, a tender, intimate, gesture that was usually reserved for when d'Artagnan was sick or badly wounded.
"Thank you." Athos said sincerely.
"That's not the only thing we brought with us from Paris," D'Artagnan grinned. "Just wait 'till you see."
AN - The question of Athos' missing jacket, (and more importantly his pauldron), will be returned to!
