A/N: Here comes the promised continuation of our marksman's foolish adventures! I'm putting a minor gore warning on this one; although there's nothing too graphic and your reactions will mostly hinge on how much imagination you have and how squeamish you are. Still, consider yourselves warned.
I'm dedicating this piece to the lovely LadyCavil! I think we had a discussion once about our mutual disinterest in d'Artagnan (?). However, I believe you will enjoy this one anyway ;)
Happy reading, guys! Let me know what you think!
~What Is Mine I Give Freely~
By the time they've managed to shake off their attackers, even d'Artagnan can tell that it's bad.
Maybe not in an apocalyptic, directly life-threatening kind of way, but it's definitely an our-careers-might-be-over-and-Treville-will-most-definitely-have-our-asses kind of bad.
"Here, help me lie him down," Aramis breathes, shifting the body that has been more or less thrown over his shoulders for the last 3 miles.
D'Artagnan helps ease their Principal down on the sparse vegetation, a local politician they had been tasked to protect (the irony isn't lost on either of them.) He then leaves the man in Aramis' care while he half-crawls half-drags himself up the hill behind which they have taken cover, and that seems to be the border between dunes of sand in one direction, and untamed wilderness in the other.
The day is slowly turning towards afternoon but there's still plenty of light, and the location they've chosen allows them to gaze over miles of dry, untouched land, while at the same time remain fairly invisible. Releasing a slow breath, d'Artagnan briefly bows his head in relief; there are no signs of their pursuers. He takes another look just to be sure, but there's really not much he could miss from their vantage point, and so he skids down the sandy slope and back to the others.
"There's no sign of them," he informs, crouching down next to Aramis. "They must have finally given up."
"Let us hope they have," Aramis mumbles absently, using the tweezers from his IFAK to cut through the dark blue, way-beyond-their-paygrade suit of their charge. He removes the fabric, revealing the battered chest of their HVU, and d'Artagnan grimaces at the sight; he's seen enough to know that there's too much blood for this to be easy.
Normally, he would have expected something like this to happen – after all, they never did "easy" anyway; that was for other regiments, like the Red Guards – but this had really seemed like a normal, boring protection detail mission. Up until two hours ago, that is.
"How bad is it?" d'Artagnan asks, already dreading the answer.
Aramis is examining the wound, gloved hands tacky with blood.
"I'm fairly certain that all the pieces are out, but he's lost too much blood. Hand me my needle and thread, if you would."
D'Artagnan shuffles closer and reaches into Aramis' pocket, digging out the requested items.
"Threaded and ready," he quips a moment later, handing them to Aramis.
The sharpshooter nods his thanks. Just as he is about to start, he glances up, eyebrows knitted together in faint concern.
"How is your head?"
He's referring to the whack to the head that d'Artagnan took when the M72 LAW more or less blew up their Humvee, sending them rolling down a 9-yard slope. It's really quite a miracle that all they suffered were a few cuts and bruises.
"It hurts like a bitch," he answers truthfully, because he knows that when it comes to injuries, Aramis can see through all of them instantly. "But I'll live. No concussion, you said so yourself."
Aramis smirks and raises an eyebrow.
"And your shoulder?"
D'Artagnan rolls his eyes, despite his head protesting the movement.
"It's fine. I just landed on it wrong; it didn't get squashed by the car." He throws an uneasy glance down at the unconscious man beside them. "And I didn't get pierced by a piece of metal, either."
Aramis' eyes turn grim and he returns his attention to their HVU.
"Position yourself at his head," he instructs. "Monitor his breathing."
D'Artagnan doesn't usually think of himself as naïve – though he is young, he's been around long enough to know that the world isn't the forgiving, merciful place he thought it was as a kid – but since he joined the Musketeers and found his place with three of the regiment's top operatives, he's nearly come to idolize his fellow teammates and their abilities.
It soon becomes clear to him, though, that even Aramis' extraordinary skill with a needle won't be enough to fix this.
"He's hardly breathing, Aramis," d'Artagnan mumbles after a few minutes, as the marksman cuts the thread and removes the bloody gloves from his hands.
Aramis frowns down at the man. He looks indecisive for no more than two seconds, before reaching into his IFAK again, determination etched onto his features.
"He needs a blood transfusion," he states, as if to himself.
D'Artagnan huffs.
"Not to be pessimistic or anything, but you do know that there are no hospitals for at least 7 miles, right?"
"We don't need a hospital," Aramis says, looking triumphant as he takes out a small plastic bag containing a curled rubber tube and another, smaller one. He swiftly continues to untie the sash from his waist and fastens it around his upper right arm. "All we need is basic medical knowledge, the right equipment, and a donor."
He grins wickedly.
D'Artagnan blinks.
Surely he doesn't mean…?
"You can't be serious?" he eventually says, prepared for this to be another one of the "rites of passage" that the three of them – though mostly Aramis and Porthos – had put him through when he'd been new to the team.
"Don't worry, it's been tried and tested," Aramis assures him, producing two syringes and connecting them to opposite ends of the tube. "There are plenty of documented cases."
"Successful?" d'Artagnan asks disbelievingly. Nausea, which has little to do with his head, is welling up, and he's suddenly glad that he's already sitting down.
Aramis rolls his eyes but doesn't look up from cleaning the inside of his own elbow and that of their Principal with antiseptic rags.
"Yes," he confirms calmly, "it has been successfully tried and tested. It's not unheard of within field medicine."
"I doubt it's recommended, either."
He can't help but to wince when Aramis injects the syringe into their Principal's arm and then tapes it stuck – the man doesn't even stir.
"How do you even know that you have the right blood type?" he asks, bile rising in his throat as Aramis fluidly proceeds to sticking the other needle into the inside of his elbow.
Needles don't usually bother him, but then this isn't exactly your annual flu shot.
"Because," the sharpshooter informs him, "I have the fortune of belonging to the 0,6 % of the population whose blood type is compatible with all other blood types."
D'Artagnan groans and vigorously shakes his head, instantly regretting the motion as it sends black dots into his vision.
"Aramis, this is insane!" he hisses and clutches his head, suddenly feeling angry without really knowing why. No, not angry, afraid, because what the hell is he supposed to do if the rebels come back? There were at least four of them and while he doesn't doubt his abilities, he is aware of their limits in his current condition, and knows that he wouldn't be able to protect their HVU and Aramis on his own.
However, that doesn't scare him even remotely as much as the thought of Athos and Porthos not finding them in time.
"If we don't supply him with blood soon, he could go into hypovolemic shock. That can kill as easily as infection, and a lot quicker," Aramis explains patiently. "And I hardly need to remind you what's at stake here; if this man dies, the Democratic Party will have lost one of their most politically significant persons and the peace negotiations will be put on hold, maybe permanently. However, if you have any alternative ideas, then please, I'm open to suggestions."
D'Artagnan looks at him, opens his mouth, desperately wants to say something, before closing it again.
Aramis gives a resigned little smile.
"That's what I thought. Now, help me get my legs up against the slope. It will increase the blood flow."
D'Artagnan begrudgingly does as he's told, pointedly not looking at the rapidly-turning-red tube. He sits down next to Aramis afterwards, his back against the sandy dune.
It's quiet; there is no birdsong, not even the wind makes a sound. The entire forest is silent.
In any other circumstance, d'Artagnan would have found it peaceful.
Staring forward, he asks quietly, "How long?"
He sees Aramis' head turn towards him from the corner of his eye.
"How long what?" he asks, and d'Artagnan releases a frustrated breath.
"How long before I have to start worrying about you dying from blood loss." When Aramis doesn't immediately answer, he continues, "I might not have as much medical experience as you, but I'm not stupid. And I'm not letting you bleed out for this guy, no matter his 'political significance'."
He glances down and says, only half-joking, "I'm pretty sure Porthos would have me flogged, if I did."
Aramis chuckles, his expression amused and a little wicked.
"We wouldn't want that now, would we?"
He soon turns serious though and, shifting his gaze towards the sky, he sighs.
"Half an hour won't cause any lasting damage," he answers, and d'Artagnan watches him closely. He seems to be telling the truth – although half an hour of emptying your body of blood sounds eerily long in d'Artagnan's opinion – but he learned early on that Aramis, while being an excellent caregiver to the rest of them, almost always downplays his own condition. Porthos had once told him that, while he trusts Aramis with his life, trusting Aramis with his own life is another matter entirely.
"When we approach forty-five minutes, I will start to fall unconscious."
A shudder makes its way through d'Artagnan's body, but he stays silent.
"And after that, well… I will be the one needing a blood transfusion, which, all things considered, would be rather ironic." Glancing up, he adds with a wink, "Though I wouldn't worry; Porthos is as relentless as a bloodhound when any of us go missing, and Athos…" He smirks conspiratorially. "Athos would never admit to it, but he's just as bad."
D'Artagnan doesn't mention that Aramis is hardly one to judge, him being the biggest mother hen of all of them, but only nods and leans back. Sand finds its way in underneath his fatigues, but he's too weary to care.
"Does it hurt?" he asks after a while, curiosity growing now that the initial shock has settled. Although he's still not particularly pleased with their situation, he has resigned himself to the fact that it's out of his hands, and most likely their best option – crappy as it is.
He hears Aramis shake his head in the sand.
"It's the same thing as donating blood; although in a much larger scale and, admittedly, not as free of risk."
They stay like that for a while, just small-talking, and if d'Artagnan doesn't let his eyes stray downwards, he can almost convince himself that this is just another one of their many late stakeouts and that one of his brothers is not lying, actively bleeding out, next to him.
It's close after his watch indicates that thirty minutes have passed when he hears the telltale sound of bodies moving through the dense area. Tensing, d'Artagnan warily stands and draws his gun. His head throbs with the sudden change of altitude.
Giving Aramis a brief glance, he mumbles, "Don't move."
Aramis raises an amused eyebrow at him, and d'Artagnan grimaces.
"You know what I mean. Just, stay awake."
Aramis withdraws his gun from its holster, eyes incredibly alert in spite of his increasing pallor. He nods, and although d'Artagnan doesn't feel comfortable leaving his friend in such a vulnerable position, he likes the idea of being ambushed again even less.
He stays close to the sandy hill, moving carefully so as not to draw attention to himself, should their visitors be closer than he anticipates. His heart is hammering in his chest, blood pulsating in his ears and throat with the familiar rush of adrenaline and he deliberately has to focus on taking slow, steady breaths so the sounds don't override his actual hearing.
The steps are moving towards him, and he frowns from where he stands behind a mostly dead tree; it's too cautious, too swift, for it to be their previous attackers – they went for a much more explosive approach rather than a stealthy one. The first flicker of hope awakens in d'Artagnan's chest. With the footsteps growing louder, he peeks out from his hiding place, gun drawn and ready, and waits.
When, mere seconds later, a gloved hand appears through the foliage, followed by the rest of a very familiar figure, every muscle in d'Artagnan's body turns to water.
"Athos." He lowers his gun and steps forward, the relief almost dizzying. "Thank God."
He's fairly certain he's never in his life been this happy to see their team leader's impassive face and piercing blues.
"D'Artagnan," Athos greets, eyes raking over him in scrutiny. "Are you alright?"
Porthos' familiar bulk appears through the foliage behind him and D'Artagnan nods, a little too enthusiastically, and with the adrenaline leaving his body the world suddenly tilts.
"d'Artagnan."
He blinks his surroundings back into place and meets his mentor's steady gaze, belatedly acknowledging the hand on his arm.
"I'm alright," he quickly assures. "A bit banged up, but I'm fine."
Athos gives him another onceover and, apparently satisfied that he's telling the truth, nods.
"Aramis?" Porthos asks, already scanning the area for their fourth member.
Something must show on his face, because Porthos swears and stalks off into the direction where d'Artagnan came from. A nudge from Athos has him following, and he almost crashes into the big man's back when they pass the corner of the sand dune and Porthos suddenly stops.
It's an unsettling sight, even for d'Artagnan who knew what to expect, and he can only imagine what it must be like for the other two.
Aramis is lying on his back next to their charge with his eyes half-closed, legs elevated against the hill. The ground next to him is dark with blood, and although it's pretty clear it belongs to the unmoving body next to him, it still looks disconcerting.
D'Artagnan glances at his two newly arrived teammates, expecting them to look at least somewhat shocked at the morbid display, but they look more haunted and sad than anything else.
"I'm sorry," he blurts, just to break the tense silence. "I know I should have stopped him, it was a stupid and risky and completely insane thing to do but our HVU was bleeding out and becoming anemic and could be hypovolemic, which, apparently, can be life-threatening, and we didn't know what blood type he had and we couldn't just let him die and Aramis is O- so there really weren't that many options and…"
"d'Artagnan," Athos interrupts, switching on his radio. "Breathe."
d'Artagnan takes a breath, feeling dizzy by the stream of words that made its way out his mouth.
Porthos has already made his way over to their fourth member, kneeling down next to him and putting a hand to his cheek, concern evident in every movement.
Aramis' eyelids flutter at the touch. He blinks a few times, smirks when his eyes land of Porthos.
"Took you long enough," he quips cheekily, squeezing the offered hand with his left one, gun placed on his stomach.
Porthos sighs, fondness and exasperation vying across his features. "Fuck's sake, Aramis…"
"We really need to work on your bedside manner, my friend."
"What are you doing?"
Aramis raises an eyebrow at him.
"My job," he answers, as if it's obvious. He gives a lazy nod in the direction of the unconscious man at his right. "Saving him."
"I wasn't aware that unapproved blood transfusions were part of the job description," Athos says wryly, his report of their coordinates now given and his hand releasing its hold on his Motorola.
Aramis just waves at him sluggishly.
"Aramis…" Porthos sighs, and pins the sharpshooter with a look that is at the same time gentle and firm. "'S not the same."
"It's not the same," Aramis agrees, voice soft but equally as steadfast. "He will live."
D'Artagnan glances between the three of them, knows that there's something that he's missing, but he doesn't ask, realizing that right now, he doesn't really care what they're talking about as long as they can all get the hell away from this place.
Porthos sighs again and Athos mumbles, without taking his eyes off of his two long-time teammates, "How long has it been?"
D'Artagnan glances at his watch.
"35 minutes."
Athos nods, his mouth a thin line as he moves over to position himself beside their charge. Removing a glove, he rests his hand against the man's clammy skin; it's clear that he's far from out of the woods, but to d'Artagnan he looks, if not better than at least not worse than he did twenty minutes ago.
"5 minutes, then I'm calling it," Athos says. He raises a hand without even looking up when Aramis opens his mouth to argue. "That's an order, Aramis. I'm not having this discussion with you." He doesn't say 'again', but it's there all the same. "The MEDEVAC should be here any minute, and then the EMTs can take over."
Aramis seems pleased with that and gives a tired nod.
"Hey," Porthos says, shaking him gently when he closes his eyes. "No napping for you just yet."
Aramis blinks one eye open.
"Wasn't planning to." He says it good-humoredly, but he really is starting to look very pale and d'Artagnan glances at his watch again.
Forty-five minutes, then I will be the one needing a blood transfusion.
He shudders, and forces his gaze, and mind, away and up towards the horizon, willing help to arrive.
~Les Inséparables~
Minutes later he stands beside Athos, watching as Porthos glares his way onto the chopper with Aramis; the sniper had objected to needing a stretcher, declaring that he was perfectly capable of walking. Porthos had looked at him like he was insane, and Athos had turned to the waiting medics and said, "This man is delirious. I would advise against taking anything that comes out of his mouth seriously." Aramis had scowled at him but didn't seem too eager to argue the point, since it was soon proved that he couldn't even work himself up into a sitting position without assistance. Still, it was a testament to how lousy he was feeling that he'd given in so quickly.
"He's done this before," d'Artagnan says now, voice soft.
It's not a question.
Athos gives one, barely perceivable nod, eyes still on the other half of their team.
"Once."
He doesn't elaborate, and d'Artagnan doesn't ask.
Suddenly, it doesn't seem all that important.
(They insist Aramis remain in recovery for the night, just to make sure that everything is in working order; the sniper, unsurprisingly, checks himself out as soon as Dr. Lemay announces he hasn't gone and contracted any unknown germs. Neither Athos nor Porthos are particularly pleased, but Lemay only shrugs with a helpless smile – though d'Artagnan suspects that he's secretly amused. Technically, there's no reason Aramis can't recover in his own bed, the Doc says, and, at his words, Aramis grins triumphantly at them. Add to that the fact that Treville chose that exact moment to arrive, declaring that their HVU seemed to be on the mend, and Aramis positively beams.
Still, the walk to his and Porthos' tent, though not great in distance, is slow, and the effort of it is clear in the way Aramis trembles. Athos and Porthos don't say anything, just silently flank their brother on either side, their hands shooting out to steady him whenever he strays too far off course. D'Artagnan hurries ahead, pulling the flap to the tent apart and throwing the covers of Aramis' cot aside, placing a cup of water next to it – Lemay had made it clear that Aramis needed to replenish his fluids – and is in the middle of covering the ground with spare blankets when the others appear. He lifts his head and catches Athos' gaze. Holding it, he gives a minute nod and receives one, equally as infinitesimal, in return.
It goes without saying that they're all staying the night.)
A/N: I realized there are quite a few military terms in this chapter, so I've put together a short list for those interested:
HVU = High-value unit (person or object that a military group is tasked with procuring)
Principal - Basically same as HVU, but only applies to humans
IFAK = Individual First Aid Kit (standard issue for all soldiers in the American army)
M72 LAW = M72 Light Anti-tank Weapon System (a kind of rocket launcher)
Motorola - Standard issue radio
MEDEVAC = Medical Evacuation (of wounded - usually by helicopter. Difference with CASEVAC/Dust Off: a MEDEVAC is equipped with medical supplies, whereas a Dust Off normally isn't. However, it takes longer for it to arrive to the scene of battle - since the equipment needs to be loaded etc.)