Save it for a Rainy Day

II.

Sopping wet, and with much urgency, d'Artagnan led his fellow musketeers to the back bedroom of the house, but right before entering he was shoved aside as Porthos pushed past him.

Constance still had Aramis embraced in her arms when they entered. "I think he's finally asleep," she whispered, her tone bringing them all to a halt.

"I'm awake," murmured Aramis, removing himself slowly from her grasp.

Porthos moved forward and arrived at Aramis' bedside just in time to help Constance lower him the last few inches to the pillows. Aramis leaned again to favor his left side, and the throbbing in his head had subsided a little now that he was semi-sitting. It also helped relieve the congestion in his lungs, making it easier to breathe deeply without fear of igniting a coughing spell.

"You look terrible," Porthos blurted out, staring down at his friend. "How'd this happen? Who did this to you? I'll kill 'em."

Athos approached the foot of the bed and took off his rain-drenched hat. "One question at a time," he said to Porthos. Then he rested his gaze on Aramis. "How are you feeling?"

"Could be better," quipped the Spaniard. "Yourself?"

Athos tensed his jaw. "This is serious, Aramis."

"I know," replied the Spaniard, having to close his eyes as he spoke just to work past the pain in his throat. "I know."

After sharing a worried glance with Athos, Porthos sat on the bed. "Treville is getting the doctor," he said, as he reached for the blanket and pulled it back. "Let us have a look at you in the meantime."

Once their friend's injuries were laid bare, there was only one comment amidst the silent gawking.

"Oh, my God, Aramis."

The words were spoken by the usually unflappable Athos, which made them all the more devastating.

The bruise, on and around, his left hip, was garish and made of hues not meant to be seen on human skin.

"His hand has been slashed as well," pointed out d'Artagnan, who had come to stand behind his lover.

Constance patted the hand d'Artagnan laid on her shoulder. "There's also a rather large bump just above his neck."

Porthos pushed aside the hair at the back of Aramis' head and pressed gently. This elicited a groan from his friend that made Porthos quickly retract his hand. "Where is that doctor?" he growled.

"I'll be fine," Aramis said, having to pause and concentrate on swallowing and abate the stirring deep in his lungs. "I will survive till he gets here. Just please don't shout anymore."

Porthos frowned and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. Then he let loose a broad, toothy grin. "Of course you'll be fine," he said, with a stout nod. "We're here now." He turned away to hide his pained expression, and also his shame for possibly having just lied to his friend.

"Appreciate the kind words," Aramis replied with a small laugh. Then he closed his eyes as a small cough escaped from inside his chest. He continued to concentrate on his breathing- anything too deep would rattle his lungs, and a violent cough was the last thing he wanted to inflict upon his throat.

"In the meantime, let's make you more comfortable," Porthos said, as he rose from the bed and laid a hand on Aramis' knee.

"Don't…!" Constance's warning was drowned out by a blood-curdling scream. Aramis arched his back, grabbing his hip in frantic need to stop the pain as he turned and buried his head into the pillows to stifle his wailing.

Porthos jumped back.

Athos spun to face the wall.

D'Artagnan looked as if he were going to retch.

"… touch his leg!" Constance finished, anxiously rushing forward to settle Aramis.

"What the hell is going on?"

Everyone, but Aramis, turned to see a drenched and horror-struck Treville standing in the bedroom doorway. And just behind him stood an unfamiliar face clutching a bag to his chest.

Not waiting for an answer, the Captain stormed up to the bed, pushed Porthos aside and leaned over to take stock of Aramis' condition. The young marksman did not look capable of speech, so Treville softened his stance and directed his question to Constance instead. "How bad is it?"

Constance shook her head as she got up and backed away from the bed. She took solace in d'Artagnan's arms before speaking. "His left side," she said, pointing at his hip.

Treville looked down the length of the musketeer's body, taking an involuntary step back when he saw the bruise. After a pause, he pointed a taut finger at the stranger in the doorway.

"You," he demanded. "Fix him."

Then he stepped back out of the room, pulling Porthos along with him. Athos and d'Artagnan, with Constance in tow, followed them both out through the door and into the other room.

Aramis was only vaguely aware of their departure, his mind full of pleading prayers to make the pain stop. It ripped through him from his hip to his foot and even across his abdomen and deep into his back. He could not let go of his hold on his hip, or his hand from his forehead as he pressed his fingers into his skull to numb the pain and pounding. As he tried to breathe through it, deep and slow, he felt his lungs burning and his throat stinging. Aramis had been shot, stabbed and sliced many times in his life, but never had he felt this level of pain.

"It's all right, son," said a voice above him. "Let me take a look."

Aramis did not recognize the voice and didn't much care to pay it any mind, but a hand on his arm pulling him onto his back gave him no choice. He was rolled over so he was flat, making his lungs burn further and the pain across his abdomen deepen. It was so intense, his stomach began to roil in protest and he felt bile rising quickly up his throat.

"Breathe, son," the voice said again.

Aramis felt something press lightly against his chest as a hand came to rest on his forehead. The touch settled him enough to quell his nausea and open his eyes. He saw a man with dark hair leaning over him and a moment later the man raised his head and looked down at him with a worrisome frown.

"Physician?" asked Aramis, blinking up at him from under the hand still resting on his forehead.

"Yes," the man replied, pulling his hand back. Then he began rifling through the medical bag on his lap. "No fever… But you are still cold… Most likely come about later. Let's see about that pain…"

As Aramis listened to the doctor rambling to himself, he tried to sit himself up further on the bed in anticipation of having to drink something. He let go of his hip reluctantly and braced his hands on the mattress on either side of his body and gave himself a gentle push back. An excruciating pain exploded in his hip, and he had to bite his lower lip to contain the groan working it's way out his mouth. Once up, his chest began to settle again and his head didn't throb as much. He could keep his eyes open now without too much difficulty, and looked about the room. It was only the doctor with him, so he assumed the others had retreated into the other room. He could hear their muted voices, and it comforted him to know they were close, but they could not heal what ailed him.

Outside, a distant roll of thunder could be heard over the rain hitting hard against the window. Aramis turned his head slowly, drawn to the chaotic sound of thousands of tiny droplets pelting the glass. Thunder boomed again, followed immediately by streaks of white lightening, and the window shook and rattled. He envied the storm and it's ability to unleash its fury without restriction. Aramis was angry, but his body would not allow him to fight. Instead, it forced him to bed and to a place in his mind he never liked to visit- a place of uncertainty, fear and pain. He squeezed his eyes shut as his hip suddenly spasmed and his nausea returned.

The doctor looked to Aramis just in time to see his body start shivering. "You need to be warmed up," stated the doctor. "But first, drink this."

The doctor cradled Aramis' head in one hand while holding a small vial in the other and pressed it to his lips.

The instant the liquid entered his mouth his body rejected it and he spat it out all over himself and the doctor's hand. Quickly after that, Aramis' stomach let loose what little contents it contained and he retched painfully as acidic bile rushed upward past his raw throat. When the doctor released his head to fetch something to clean them both with, Aramis let his head loll to the side with a whimper. There would be nothing for the pain if he could not keep anything down, and he most certainly did not want to relive the ripping pain in his throat in order to try again.

Once the doctor had cleaned everything up, he sat back on the edge of the bed and began palpating the marksman's bruised hip. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked.

Aramis could not understand how this man thought him capable of speech while he was inflicting that amount of pain to his hip, so instead of answering, he merely shook his head.

When the doctor was done with his physical exam of the musketeer's lower left side, he sat back with a grim expression. "I hear you have some medical knowledge," he said, with a slightly questioning tone.

"Yes," whispered Aramis.

"Am I to assume you already know?"

Aramis nodded, his eyes clenched tight as his suspicions were confirmed. He'd known once he'd laid down what the cause of his pain was, he just hadn't wanted to accept it.

"Can you fix it?" he asked, slowly with as much determination as he could muster.

The doctor laid a hand on his arm and nodded gently. "With help, I'm quite certain. But if anything goes wrong…"

Aramis looked at him sharply. "Nothing will go wrong, and we will not discuss this further."

The doctor nodded solemnly. "We will have to eventually."

Aramis glared at him so the doctor abruptly changed topics. "You are quite chilled," he said, reaching a hand under the blanket to feel his torso. "How long were you out in this dreadful storm?"

"Long enough," whispered Aramis, grimacing as he contained his cough with a painful swallow.

The doctor drew in a deep breath as he retracted his hand. "On top of everything, you may be coming down with influenza. Let me see that throat of yours."

Aramis parted his lips but could not open his mouth wide enough for the doctor to see anything, so the doctor tugged down on his chin. The entire time the doctor spent looking into his mouth, Aramis fought back tears welling in the corners of his eyes. It felt as though someone was jabbing a needle into the back of his throat and he could feel it all the way to his ears and up behind his eyes. When the doctor finally released him, he braced both his hands around his neck and tried to squeeze the pain into submission. It subsided a little, and he was able to remove his hands and let them rest back on the bed.

"Quite inflamed," the doctor observed. "Give it some time, and a little honey and it should calm down. I want to look at your hand, but first, let's get you warm." The doctor got up and started rummaging through drawers and chests and when he'd found something suitable he returned to the bed. "Blankets are all well and good," he said. "But nothing retains heat better than a fresh set of clothes." The doctor carefully maneuvered a loose shirt over Aramis, followed by a heavy knitted sweater. "You should be feeling cozy in no time. Now, let's look at your hand."

As the bandage on his left hand was unwound, Aramis considered his predicament. His left leg was no longer attached properly to his body, his hand was sliced open and he could already feel his fingers getting stiff. Both injuries could be easily fixed, but their ramifications could not.

He was greatly unsettled by the thought that he might not be the same after this; riding and running, perhaps even simple walking could become difficult if things did not heal well. And he did not want his brothers, or Captain Treville, knowing this any more than he wanted to know himself.

To this day, Aramis still felt the same excitement and thrill riding into battle as he had that first time years ago when he was a young recruit. The memory of his first day as a true musketeer brought a smile to his face, despite the doctor prodding at his sliced open hand. His heart accelerated, his muscles twitched and he could feel adrenaline coursing through him, mimicking the exhilaration he'd felt his first time in battle.

He remembered drawing his pistol and feeling a rush as he squeezed the trigger and let loose a kill shot, then drawing his sword to attack another opponent with a grin on his face as he felt himself come alive with both fear and anticipatory glee.

Resounding thunder, not too far in the distance, broke him from his nostalgia and his reality came crushing down on him as he looked at his hip.

It wasn't just slightly separated, it was completely out of its joint, and it would take nearly twice the force it took to dislocate it to put it back in.

But Aramis could face it head-on, albeit with fear, but also with support. His brothers were in the other room and he knew they would not let him go through this alone. He smiled despite his fear and anxiety, and set his mind to do whatever was necessary to make sure he could ride again into battle with the musketeers.

~Musketeers~

"I want to know everything," Treville ordered, ripping the hat from his head and shaking out the rain. "I want to know why that sound just came out of one of my musketeers! Which, coincidentally, I don't ever want to hear again. And please, start at the beginning."

Porthos and Athos looked immediately at d'Artagnan who in turn looked directly at Constance.

She stepped forward and relayed everything she knew. By the time she was done, Treville's anger had melted away, and he was now standing in the doorway that led to his injured musketeer.

"Aramis said they used his name?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

Constance nodded.

Athos went to his captain, also feeling the need to keep vigil over Aramis. "This suggests the attackers knew him in some regard. So we can assume this was a targeted attack."

"I concur," replied Treville.

"Who would do this?" asked Porthos.

"Come on," huffed Treville. "This is Aramis were talking about. One mustn't look too far to find a jealous husband."

"No," stated Athos. "One does not attack with such proclivity over a simple affair. We must look elsewhere for a cause." His eyes suggested there was something else he wanted to say, but he kept silent. A theory plagued the very core of his being, but he wouldn't discuss it until he and Aramis were alone.

Treville knew better than to question Athos when he had that look in his eyes. "Perhaps you're right," he said. "And I'm sorry to have jumped to such a base conclusion."

"So we're starting at the beginning then, yeah?" asked Porthos, stepping toward the crowded doorway.

Athos looked at him. "Indeed we are."

"No mind," smiled Porthos, taking a spot next to Athos. "I'll search to the ends of the Earth to find whom ever did this to him. It doesn't matter where we start, cause I know where it will finish."

Constance stood back from the musketeers and watched as they watched their friend. After a moment, she released d'Artagnan's hand to allow him to join his brothers in vigil, and sat at the table. The excitement of the evening was finally taking its toll and the exhaustion was overwhelming her. It seemed like just minutes ago she had been laying peacefully in d'Artagnan's arms- with not a care in the world.

She couldn't completely dismiss her disappointment or displeasure with Aramis over what happened with the Queen, but if this were some form of punishment, she felt it certainly did not fit the crime. She wanted to say something, maybe suggest where to start looking for the culprit, but there wasn't a single person in the room in whom she could confide. She glanced at d'Artagnan and wished with all her heart she could talk to him, but betrayal was not, and never would be, on her to-do list. Not to the Queen. And not to the dauphin.

Soft whispering at the bedroom door interrupted her inner turmoil. The doctor was talking to the musketeers, and by the looks on their faces the news was not good. She decided to stay where she was and allow the men some privacy.

"I'm going to need some assistance," the doctor was saying, as he scrutinized the four men. Deciding on the man who appeared to be the strongest, he pulled Porthos into the room first.

The larger musketeer noticed Aramis was sitting up now, but his knee was still bent upward, and he was also wearing a clean shirt and a dark, heavy knit sweater. He almost looked normal if not for the tight line of his mouth and the death hold he had of the sheets.

"Take off your weapons and doublet," ordered the doctor, not giving Porthos the chance to speak with his friend. But he did as he was told without complaint, knowing that whatever the doctor wanted was in Aramis' best interest. He passed his doublet and weapons to Athos who put them on the floor, then approached the bed. Aramis looked up at him, still grimacing and writhing. Porthos didn't know what to say, so fortunately the doctor's next order gave him something to do.

"Climb in behind him, let him rest his back against your chest. He'll need your strength."

Porthos looked at the doctor sharply, but Aramis' pained voice quickly drew his attention back to the bed.

"Just do as he says," instructed Aramis, through gritted teeth. "The movement can't possibly hurt me more than sitting like this."

Porthos nodded and began a slow climb onto the bed. He stretched his legs out on either side of his friend- whose hands found new purchase on his thighs. Porthos paid no mind to them digging into his muscles for he would do anything, and endure anything, for his friend.

"How you doing?" he finally asked, putting a hand on Aramis' shoulder.

Between controlled breaths, Aramis replied, "I'm coping. But promise me something, dear friend?"

"Anything."

"When this happens, please don't let go." He paused to catch his breath and tide the cough building in his chest. "No matter how much I beg you."

Porthos moved his hand to his friend's forehead and pulled back to rest his head on his chest. He leaned down and whispered into his ear. "I'll never let you go, Aramis."

At that, the pained and wounded musketeer nodded his head ever so gently.

With the two settled, the doctor chose Athos from the remaining group and placed him at the foot of the bed. He then took the older musketeer's hands and wrapped them around Aramis' ankle.

Athos allowed his hands to be guided, although with some trepidation of what was to come. He stared up the bed hoping to find and draw reassurance from Porthos, but Porthos merely shrugged back, clearly as hesitant as he.

Aramis did not miss their silent conversation. "Don't worry, boys," he hissed, still struggling to maintain composure through the pain. "This is going to hurt me a lot more than it's going to hurt you. A lot more."

Porthos' head fell back against the wall. "Oh, see, why'd you have to go and say that? Now I'm officially worried."

Aramis laughed quietly, despite the situation. "Just remember that old adage," he said. "All for one…"

"... And one for all," finished d'Artagnan, stepping to the bed to rest a hand on Porthos' shoulder.

Athos smiled with pride. There wasn't anything these men wouldn't do for each other, and this unfortunate moment was a true testament of their dedication to each other. Athos could not imagine life without any of them by his side. One day, he knew deep down, he would have the fortitude to tell these men that, but today, and most definitely now, was not the appropriate time.

The doctor took up position on Aramis' left side and placed one hand on his knee and his other under his thigh. "If we're ready, I'd like to begin." He looked to each of his assistants – who nodded their reply, then locked his questioning gaze on Aramis. "Are you ready?"

"One moment," replied the Spaniard, pushing himself deeper into Porthos' chest. Then he looked up to d'Artagnan. "Please apologize to Constance for how I'm about to behave. No woman should have to endure the profanity that will most likely escape my lips."

D'Artagnan nodded with a smile. "I'm sure she will forgive you, given the circumstances."

"You have no idea what's about to come out of my mouth," replied Aramis. Then, after a few courage-building breaths, Aramis gave the doctor permission to proceed.

"I'm going to straighten the leg first," instructed the doctor. Then he directed his attention specifically on Porthos. "Wrap your arms around his chest, hold tight, and don't let him move."

The musketeer did as he was told and Aramis adjusted his grip to grab each of Porthos' shoulders behind him.

Then the doctor turned to the end of the bed. "And you, Athos is it?" Athos nodded, his mouth set in a grim line of determination as if he just wanted this over with. "Try not to let our patient pull his leg back up. Use some force if need be, but try and be as gentle as possible."

Again, Athos nodded as he worked his hands around Aramis' ankle to secure his grip. His hands were beginning to sweat and he feared his grip would not suffice.

"Here we go," informed the doctor, and then he began the slow process of pushing down Aramis' knee while simultaneously urging his leg forward.

Aramis had not been wrong about his reaction. The curses, in both French and Spanish, flowed freely between screams and groans as his leg was painfully lowered to rest flat on the bed.

The doctor instructed both Porthos and Athos to retain their holds until Aramis settled down. It took several gut wrenching moments before he did, and then, and only then, did they release their grips.

Afterward, Athos fell back against the wall and let his head drop into his hands. He scrubbed his face several times before he could present his stoicism once again.

D'Artagnan had started pacing between the bed and their captain, one hand on his hip, the other unable to stop itself from combing through his hair.

Treville remained still, but his shoulders were hunched and his eyes closed.

Porthos, on the other hand, was vigorously rubbing both of Aramis' arms, a relaxed smile on his face. "You did good, Aramis," he said. "You did good."

Aramis was placid in his arms, his head having lolled to the side and away from everyone's view. Porthos could feel his lungs expand and contract against his own chest and it gave the musketeer some solace. Slowly, Porthos put a hand to Aramis forehead, but drew it back quickly when he felt moisture. "Pass me something," he called. Within seconds Treville had placed a towel in his outstretched hand.

Porthos took the towel and wiped the cold seat from his friend's brow. "It's all over now. Rest. I don't plan on letting go for awhile." He continued to dab gently at Aramis' face and brow while issuing soothing words of encouragement. It wasn't until he heard a gentle cough to his left that he turned his attention elsewhere.

It was d'Artagnan who had coughed, but everyone in the room was staring at him with cautious apprehension.

Suddenly Porthos dropped his head back against the wall with a thud and rocked it slowly back and forth. "You said that was the first part, didn't you?" he asked the doctor. Then he righted his head and found that everyone was still staring at him. Porthos swallowed thickly and the voice that followed was troubled at best. "What's the second part, then?"

The doctor cleared his throat. "We put the hip back into place," he stated. "And pray we get it in on the first try."

Porthos tensed and held his friend tighter to his chest. "No," he breathed. "Not going to happen. We can't do that to him now. It'll kill 'im."

Aramis tightened his grip on his friend's shoulders. "Don't worry, friend," he said, looking up at him. "I won't let you go."

To be Continued…