A/N: Thanks to those who've favorited, reviewed, followed, and read the first chapter. I'm glad to see that you're enjoying it. It's been in the works for more than half a year and is still undergoing re-writes.
Summary: It's just an average workday until they hear a cry for help. Then Aramis starts to wonder what else is going to happen today.
Thanks again to Issai for beta reading this story. Her feedback has done much to improve the story and help me to see areas that weren't working. Any remaining errors are my own.
From Good to Bad to...
He awakes to the smell of bacon. Porthos is up and probably shouldn't be cooking. Aramis pulls himself from his warm bed to go investigate. The man is still recovering from a dislocated shoulder and bruised ribs. And the last Aramis knew moving still pained the man meaning he isn't supposed to move, as per doctor's orders.
Trudging down the stairs, still sleepy he catches himself quickly with a hand on the railing as his foot slips and he nearly lands butt first on the last step. The movement is more than enough to fully wake him and send his heart racing slightly. That would've been a sure way to ruin the morning.
"Porthos," he calls out walking into the kitchen, "you're still recovering. You shouldn't be in here cooking."
"It's fine," Porthos says, not looking up at him as he focuses on the skillet in front. "I'm being careful. The arm is still secured tightly, not moving a millimeter. I haven't felt so much as a twinge since I started."
"I'm sure," Aramis says, looking over the man carefully. His arm is still tightly braced and Porthos is being careful not to jar it in his movements around the kitchen.
"I'm fine. You should go get ready before d'Artagnan gets up."
"You shouldn't be up cooking for us. We can get something together."
"Nonsense. I couldn't stand to sit around for another moment, let alone lie awake in bed. Now, go back on upstairs and get ready. Athos is already up and d'Artagnan will be soon. If you don't get moving, they won't have left you a scrap."
"I should help you. You're working one handed."
"And doing fine. Breakfast is already halfway done. Now go, before I make sure that they leave you nothing." Porthos moves his spatula in Aramis' direction, using it to add emphasis to his words.
"Fine." Aramis puts his hands up and turns around. "Don't blame us when you're sore and stuck on the couch today."
Aramis returns to his bedroom in time to get in the shower before d'Artagnan. Predictably, the younger man hasn't risen yet. That suited Aramis just fine. They've yet been able to get d'Artagnan in the habit of taking a quick shower and so having to wait on him meant either taking a cold shower or skipping it. He knocks on Athos' door. The older man opens it quickly, a towel wrapped around his waist.
"He's going to be late again," Aramis says.
"I'll make sure he's up," Athos grumbles walking past Aramis down to the younger man's room, wet hair roughly toweled dry of most of its moisture and scattered messily. Each of them has tried to wake d'Artagnan in the morning but the young man only seems to respond to Athos' gruff wake-up call.
"Tell him Porthos is making breakfast."
Athos grunts his acknowledgment. As he is shutting the bathroom door, he hears Athos yell out their youngest team member's name, adding the words breakfast and Porthos. Without a doubt that will wake the man.
In less than 15 minutes, Aramis is showered, dressed, and back downstairs where Athos is in the middle of eating breakfast and Porthos is cooking a fresh batch of pancakes.
"See, told you I could get it done," Porthos says as Aramis takes a seat across from Athos at the island. He sets down a plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes in front of the man.
"How could I ever doubt you," Aramis says with a smile, digging into the plate.
They eat in relative silence until d'Artagnan comes down the stairs, rushing with heavy footsteps. By then, Athos is finished and is helping Porthos in cleaning up.
"You have fifteen minutes to eat if you want to ride in with us," Athos says. d'Artagnan doesn't hesitate or argue in sitting down at the island to start eating a plate of food that Porthos has kept warm for him.
"Fifteen minutes? He could probably down a couple stacks of these pancakes in less than half that time," Aramis says as he finishes up the fruit in his bowl.
"I'm sure he could, but I'm also sure he doesn't want to get indigestion again," Athos retorts. They all remember the last time. It was after a long day where they'd had little time to catch a minute to get a quick bite to eat. Starving, d'Artagnan had nearly eaten half a pizza in ten minutes. Within minutes, he'd dropped his pizza slice mid-bite and they watched as his face paled and a sweat broke out on his forehead. Before they knew it, he was gone from the kitchen. They found him kneeling in front of the toilet in the downstairs bathroom. He never did throw up that night, but he didn't go far from the bathroom and when he finally did, it was only with a lot of coaxing and a plastic bucket nearby. Initially, they thought he was ill, but with some careful prodding from Aramis, they discovered it was merely indigestion. It had done a lot to slow the younger man's notorious eating habits.
d'Artagnan glares at Aramis between bites. He never does like to be reminded of that night, in part because it was his own actions that led to his misery and his friends' worry.
"When are you back to work, Porthos," d'Artagnan asks between bites.
"Early next week, hopefully. Any longer and I might go stir crazy around here."
"Well, we wouldn't want that, now would we," Aramis says. Finished eating, he cleans up his own dishes and the last remaining pans from cooking.
Porthos tries to shoo them out of the kitchen, but Aramis and Athos keep working until they have the dishwasher loaded up and the pans scrubbed and dried. They finish getting ready and are heading out the door just as d'Artagnan rushes down the steps to join them.
"How's it going with the police," d'Artagnan asks on their way out.
"Terrible and I have another meeting with them today." Aramis turns to look at the younger man as they walk down the porch.
"What's so bad about it?"
"Oh, just wait until it's your turn. You're lucky that you've not come up in the rotation yet. If it's not the near daily meetings with them that gets you or the different reports that have to be filed, then it's the random meetings, the trying but partly inept sleuthing, and the overzealousness. It's a nightmare and you're guaranteed to hate every moment of your quarter."
"If it's so bad, then why do we still do it," d'Artagnan asks.
"Oh, sometimes we get something valuable," Athos adds. "It's not often and they usually don't know what they have, but it's sometimes helpful."
"Truthfully, though, we do it to satisfy Richelieu. As the police superintendent, he was none too thrilled about the creation of the Musketeers nor that they are out of his jurisdiction. This keeps us just slightly beholden to him," Aramis explains.
"Or so he thinks," Athos says.
Aramis is prepared to make another comment when he hears someone screaming. They're near the downtown, just minutes from the station. Instinct pushes him to run, with Athos and d'Artagnan following. He follows the screaming, eyes scanning his surroundings for the source. Then he sees it, across the street, empty save for three people, is a young woman and her son and a bold purse snatcher. Aramis bolts across the street, heedless of the traffic and the cars that screech to a halt, narrowly avoiding running him over.
He yells out on his way and the thief glances up, then begins his snatching efforts with more vigor. Just as Aramis crosses the street, the thief makes one final effort, pulling on the purse while pushing back at the young boy. His ploy works as the mother lets go of the purse to try to catch her son but she's too slow and he falls back, stumbling on short, unsteady legs.
It all happens so quickly that Aramis doesn't remember a conscious thought. He sees the boy falling back towards the parking space that a car is zooming into; parking is a premium downtown and to find one on the main drag is a great find. The driver can't see, anticipate the small body that will fall partly into the space. But Aramis sees and dives to slide his arms underneath that body.
It's not until he's lying on his back, the young boy cradled protectively to his chest that he begins to think about what he's done.
"Oh, Mason, are you all right," the woman asks. Aramis can feel her hands on him, wanting to move his arms to let go of the child. He can't let go. The boy is alive and safe right here with him. "Thank you, sir. Thank you for saving him." She's in tears, voice frantic.
"'Mis, come on you need to let go," Athos coaxes. "Loosen your grip. He's safe and you're safe. Take a breath and let him go."
Aramis breathes in and out, once, twice. Mason doesn't smell of desert but of some finely concocted cologne and that is enough to startle him back to reality. He releases his grip in the process and Mason scurries out from underneath him, running to cling to his mother's leg. She quickly snatches him up in her grasp.
"I apologize if he scared you," Athos explains to the woman. "He's a veteran and this incident brought out his PTSD some." Aramis doesn't see the woman's expression, but he knows it's not good when Athos continues. "He's no danger, I assure you of that. He's a Musketeer, in fact, and well-respected. He just was trying to make sure your son is safe."
"Well, I thank him for his service, but if he's got such terrible problems maybe he shouldn't be outside, especially around children. Let's go, Mason. We'll go call dad and let him know what happened, then go to the toy store. You can pick out any toy you want." As she's leaving, he hears her talking with what sounds like the police on the phone.
"How much trouble am I in," Aramis asks, finally opening his eyes to look up at Athos, who's kneeling next to him. d'Artagnan is on the other side.
"You're fine. It's that woman who has a problem," d'Artagnan says.
"It's fine, d'Artagnan. I'm used to it by now." Aramis waves it off, seeing only then what his dive did to his bare arms, sleeves rolled up in the heat. He curses at the scratches that are mingled with dirt and gravel.
"Is it just your arms," Athos asks.
"It didn't do my chest any good."
"Bruises or broken?"
"Bruising, I think." Aramis pushes himself into a sitting position with an audible wince. Athos slips an arm behind him to ease him up.
"You need to get those cuts cleaned up."
"I'll run over to the gas station and get a first aid kit," d'Artagnan says.
"That won't be enough."
"You can bring him in here." They look back to see a young woman standing in the doorway of one of the stores a few yards away. "I have a first aid kit and a sink where he can get washed up."
"You good with that," Athos asks.
"Yeah." Aramis nods and gets to his feet. d'Artagnan is quick to his feet and steadies Aramis as he stands, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at his ribs. The woman shows them back to the small bathroom. Aramis shrugs Athos and d'Artagnan off once there and starts in on cleaning up his arms. It's not difficult to reach, but the scrapes are tender and some of the dirt doesn't want to come out easily.
"Let me help," d'Artagnan says. Aramis sighs, then turns himself over to the younger man's ministrations. He tries to hold back the winces and hisses as d'Artagnan steadily cleans and bandages the scratches. Once the blood and dirt are gone, his arms don't look too badly scratched, but bandaging will help to keep them clean. Unfortunately, it's not just the cuts that hurt. Every movement sends jolts of pain through his abdomen. This is the last thing he needed this week. Though he's slept through the night more nights than not for once in several weeks, it has done little for the exhaustion he feels in his bones and muscles. Perhaps, he thinks, he's coming down with something. It wouldn't be surprising given their extra work load as the police have spent the week dealing with July 4th celebrations and their aftermaths. Or maybe there is more still to the break up with Anne than he thinks. Four months later and it still hurts to think about her.
"I've let Treville know that we'll be a little late this morning." Athos appears at the doorway, in Aramis' line of sight. "How're you doing?"
"Fine," he answers plainly. He examines his arms quickly once d'Artagnan finishes the bandaging and lets him go. "Thanks, d'Artagnan."
"How're your ribs," Athos asks. He doesn't try to catch Aramis' gaze, giving the man the benefit of the doubt that he would be truthful.
"Sore, but I don't think they're badly injured. Probably just the lingering pain from falling."
Athos nods. He believes that if the injury were truly serious that, one, they would know by now, but also that Aramis would give some indication. While he's been depressed lately, he's not suicidal. They've had moments of it getting serious, moments where Aramis called up Lemay, who is no longer practicing in town, but offered to talk with Aramis over the phone until he found a new psychiatrist. He's been working hard to keep to a routine, but Athos knows that it's not been easy, especially since he started as police liaison.
"Let's get going then. If we head out now, we'll be just in time to catch the next train."
"Thank you for the use of your bathroom and kit," Aramis says to the woman, who's been politely hovering at the front of the store, cleaning and organizing.
"For what you did out there you deserve some more kindness than that woman gave you. Shouldn't matter who you are or what's happened to you. You kept that kid safe at your own expense," the woman says.
"This is hardly anything." Aramis points at his arms while unrolling the sleeves of his shirt. They thank her again and head out to the train station.
As regular commuters, they don't need to stop to purchase tickets, allowing them to run on the train just before the doors shut. The crowd at this time is different, with more tourists than commuters. It doesn't phase them much as each is focused on something other than their fellow travelers. d'Artagnan and Athos each watch Aramis, Athos especially, knowing that the younger man is likely more injured that he is showing. As for Aramis, he is focused on not allowing any pain to show. He refuses to admit to himself that his abdomen pain is more than just lingering pain from his rough fall.
"It's about time," Treville calls out when they finally arrive. Athos hadn't told him much about their delay, but judging on their appearances, it has something to do with Aramis. The man is slightly pale, lagging behind a touch, and has bandages on his forearms that definitely weren't there last night. He's tried to hide them behind his shirt sleeves. It isn't working. Not with the blood and bandages peeking out.
"Apologies for our delay," Aramis says. "I had a slight mishap this morning just as we were heading out the door and it seemed better to take care of it there than wait." Hiding his pain isn't as easy as it had been on the train. They'd walked quickly to get here and the normal weaving around slow pedestrians had only aggravated his ribs. He is looking forward to sitting at his desk doing mindless research and paperwork until his afternoon meeting with the police.
"Well, you're just in time actually. Officer Gelshwin called just a few minutes ago."
"No," Aramis sighs, holding back the wave of rising annoyance. "What does he want?"
"To move up your meeting. Apparently, some new important evidence has been received. Could solve a big case, he said. You're to head over to the station and meet with him immediately."
Aramis holds back another sigh, which would've been louder and angry. Gelshwin has good intentions, but he tends to think anything new will lead to a big break. Instead, he nods and turns to leave. If he's lucky, he can catch the next bus to the main station.
"What happened," Treville asks once Aramis is out of earshot.
"He slid catching a kid who was falling into a parking spot where a car was coming in. His arms are the worst with some scratches," Athos explains.
"Nothing serious then?" Treville knows his men well, especially Aramis. The younger man has a tendency to collect wounds as though they're stamps. At thirty-two, he already has a medical file large enough to rival a veteran officer twice his age. And it's not just physical wounds, he's a fair collector of the invisible ones, too.
"Just scrapes and probably an injury to his ribs," Athos says. "I'll keep an eye on him when he gets back."
"He's going to be at the station for a while from the sounds of it. Gelshwin had a lot to share with him."
"He'll be so thrilled." Athos gives a wry smile.
"Yes, well in the meantime you and d'Artagnan can get some more work done on the Knotmire case. Richelieu will already be speaking in Louis' ear, convincing him of our ineptitude after Tuesday's fiasco. I want to see some real progress made by the end of the day."
Athos nods. He and d'Artagnan spend the next several hours working. Occasionally, they confer on some detail they find, but much of the remainder of the morning is spent in silence. When they are ready to order lunch, Aramis is yet to return.
"Should we order him something for when he gets back," d'Artagnan asks, He's pulled up the app for their favorite deli and is beginning to place their order.
"It might be best, given that they won't have fed him anything other than stale doughnuts and bland coffee over there and he'll be rather grumpy when he returns." Athos is quite familiar with the main station, having served as liaison more than a few times. After the last time, the police chief himself had called Treville and told him to send anyone but Athos for the next several quarters. Unfortunately for Treville, the news had done nothing but please Athos who hated working with the police as they were slow, many of them were rookies, and they never knew what they really needed to know. It left the taskforce with much of the groundwork to do.