A/N: Thanks for the continued interest in this series of tags, and I hope you enjoy this next part.
Part 3 of 4
Sparring against Athos had always held a special thrill. The older man was like the most talented sculptor when it came to swordplay, his words of correction and encouragement moulding d'Artagnan into a formidable opponent. No matter who Athos was matched with, he always seemed to know exactly the right move to make, executing each with a grace and agility that made it appear as though the man floated rather than having his feet tied to the ground like other mere mortals.
It had always brought d'Artagnan joy to observe his mentor, appreciating the skill with which Athos fought. Even better were the moments when he was the older man's partner, allowing him the unique opportunity to both observe and participate in the match.
There was no doubt that Athos had made him a better swordsman. He'd challenged d'Artagnan, not in ways that were demeaning or unkind, but in ways that appealed to his innate sense of curiosity and desire to improve, pulling from him a fine piece of art just as a sculptor did with a large block of stone. Except now it seemed that Athos was determined to destroy his creation, and d'Artagnan carried the resulting fractures that were slowly chipping away every bit of self-confidence his mentor had managed to instill.
Idly, d'Artagnan wondered if Athos would even care if it was pointed out to him what he was doing. He thought not, given the number of times he'd seen Aramis and Porthos try and reason with the man. That his former mentor's stubborn streak matched his own could never be disputed.
He pressed harder on the handkerchief that covered the still bleeding cut on his arm. Aramis had been shocked when he'd pulled away, refusing to allow the medic to do anything further. For a brief moment, a flash of hurt had appeared on the marksman's face, but rather than acquiescing to the man as he normally would, d'Artagnan had used the opportunity to walk away, a part of him glad for another chance to distance himself from his friend.
It hadn't been a conscious decision to do so, but now that he was alone in his room, he recognized the gift that fate had offered when Athos had hurt him. Aramis and Porthos continued to try and change Athos' mind, but as time progressed, it had become clear that they'd had to choose sides; Athos' situation, combined with the Gascon's actions, had ensured d'Artagnan had landed on the losing one. He didn't blame the men, recognizing that Athos' life was less than ideal after forgetting the last two years, but that knowledge did little to lessen the sting of the unintended rejection.
d'Artagnan startled mightily at the sound of rapping knuckles on his door, panicking for a moment with the thought that Aramis had followed him. That he now dreaded an act that only weeks ago would have warmed his heart pulled a bitter laugh from his throat. The sound of knocking was repeated and he sighed, resigning himself to the fact that his visitor would not be deterred.
"Come," he called as he prepared to convince the medic to leave him alone. When Filleul filled his doorway instead, d'Artagnan blinked in confusion. "What are you doing here?" he blurted, surprise overriding his thinking.
Filleul smiled warmly as he motioned inside with one hand, asking for permission to enter. Wordlessly, d'Artagnan nodded, still waiting for a reply. The Musketeer closed the door behind him, one hand lifting a satchel in his hands. "I came to see if your arm was alright." The Gascon's eyes drifted downwards to land on the stained kerchief, unaware of the drops of blood that had escaped to dampen his breeches.
Moving closer, and snagging the lone chair as he went, Filleul positioned it in front of d'Artagnan who was sitting on the edge of his bed. "I saw you sparring with Athos and know you suffered a cut."
"It's nothing," the Gascon replied dismissively, not even bothering to glance down at his arm.
Filleul offered another smile, this one tinged with a hint of something that d'Artagnan could only identify as sympathy, and he recoiled from the emotion as he repeated his earlier assertion. "Really, it's nothing."
The other man gave a small nod as he began withdrawing items from the bag he'd brought, laying out an assortment of medical supplies on the bed next to his patient. "You know Treville's stance on injuries," he commented mildly, placing the bag at his feet when he was satisfied he had everything he needed. "Best to let me take care of it now, rather than risking infection along with the Captain's wrath later."
It was true – Treville had no tolerance for idiot Musketeers who put themselves or their brothers-in-arms at risk because of untreated wounds. Given his current standing in the regiment, mostly due to Athos' contempt, he would be wise to listen to Filleul rather than providing additional evidence to support the former Comte's belief that he was utterly incompetent.
With a long exhale, d'Artagnan gave a grudging nod. "Excellent," Filleul grinned with satisfaction, his hands already reaching for the red-tinged cloth.
d'Artagnan was surprised at how hard it was for him to release his grip on the wound, his fingers having nearly molded themselves into place around his forearm. Concentrating, he managed to pry them free, allowing the other man to remove the ruined handkerchief.
As Filleul lifted the square of linen free, d'Artagnan was surprised at the amount of red that covered it, having been certain his injury was nothing more than a shallow scrape. Tsking at the sight of the wound, the Musketeer reached for the pitcher of water next to the young man's bed, wetting a clean cloth and then wiping the blood away from the slice.
Several swipes of the damp cloth revealed a relatively short cut, with fresh blood still welling forth near its centre where the blade had bitten deeply. Pressing against the skin and muscle around the slice drew a hiss of pain from d'Artagnan. "Sorry," Filleul murmured as he looked up. "I think it could use a couple stitches near the middle where it's the deepest. The rest should heal fine on its own."
d'Artagnan found himself pulling the injured arm back towards his chest, unhappy with the idea of the other man sewing his skin closed. "I'm sure it'll be fine if you just wrap it."
"But, d'Artagnan, it's still bleeding," Filleul countered reasonably as he reached for the needle and thread. When the Gascon didn't offer his arm to be stitched, he paused in his movements. "Would you prefer that I get Aramis so he can place the stitches instead?"
'Yes!' a voice inside d'Artagnan's head screamed. Please, get my friend, my brother, who always distracts me from what he's doing with a quick smile, an engaging story, or a squeeze of his hand on my shoulder. Or better yet, tell Porthos to come, too. He'll regale me with stories of past missions, and comfort me with a hand on my leg or my chest, grounding me so the pain doesn't carry me away. No, better still, give me back my best friend. The man who assures me of his love even when scolding me, and who would give his life to protect mine.
Swallowing thickly as he noted the look of hesitation on Filleul's face, d'Artagnan shook his head. "No, it's fine, you can do it." Extending his arm to the other man, he looked away, unable to watch as someone who wasn't Aramis drew a needle through his flesh.
The task was completed in silence, but not without kindness, Filleul's movements slow and careful as if afraid of startling his patient. He leaned back once he'd finished, the wound now covered with a clean, white bandage. "All done."
d'Artagnan glanced down at his arm, the neatness of the bandaging job a stark contrast to the chaos that was currently his life. "Thank you," he breathed out softly, unsure exactly what he was thanking the other man for, but certain that it wasn't simply for tending his wound.
Filleul's bright blue eyes met his, and the warmth there briefly thawed a bit of the ice that had slowly been forming around d'Artagnan's heart since Athos had forgotten and forsaken him. "You're welcome," the man replied, his hand coming up to rest momentarily on the Gascon's shoulder in an action so reminiscent of his friends' that his heart skipped a beat.
Wordlessly, Filleul packed away the medical supplies he'd brought, replacing the chair from where he'd taken it before pausing for a moment in the doorway. "Please let me know if there's anything else you need."
d'Artagnan offered a distracted nod, already looking away before the other man's voice drew his attention back. "Remember, d'Artagnan, a Musketeer is never alone, so let me know if there's anything you need."
The implication of Filleul's words struck home and d'Artagnan thought that for a moment he might be bowled over by them. Pushing the ball of emotion in his throat aside, he replied, "I will; thank you."
Sensing that his message had been received, Filleul exited, leaving d'Artagnan to ponder the fact that he still had some friends within the ranks of the regiment. It was not the friends he ached for, but perhaps it would be enough to sustain him for a while longer. Toeing his boots off, he allowed his body to slip sideways onto the bed, his thoughts the tiniest bit less chaotic than when Filleul had arrived.
Aramis watched Filleul descend the stairs that connected the courtyard to the men's quarters. The other man paused as their gazes locked, and he offered the marksman a soft smile that turned up the corners of his lips. Aramis returned the smile, his expression edged with relief at the fact that d'Artagnan's injury had been appropriately cared for.
He'd been momentarily stunned by the Gascon's reaction to his desire to tend to the wound that Athos had inflicted. Caring for his friends' hurts came to him as naturally as breathing. Until he'd gazed into d'Artagnan's pained eyes, it had never occurred to him that things between them may have changed so drastically that his attention would be unwelcome.
Aramis knew that the weeks since Athos' injury had been trying for the young man. He and Porthos had both attempted to speak on the Gascon's behalf. They had gently prodded Athos to remember his relationship with his protégé, or at the very least, to stop treating him so badly, as if d'Artagnan was to blame for everything he'd lost when the gap in his memory had been discovered.
The Athos they were dealing with now was so much more broken than their friend of two years' prior, his anguish ostensibly compounded by the sudden appearance of a fourth in their midst. The older man had never seemed to be fond of change, but in this instance, he actively fought against it, rejecting outright the idea that d'Artagnan was anything but another inexperienced soldier in their ranks.
Aramis had noted the haunted expression on Athos' face and he understood that the former Comte did what he did not out of malice, but from a deep need to protect himself from getting hurt even further. The point where Athos' memories ended corresponded with a time where the wounds of betrayal and loss were still relatively fresh, and the older man had seamlessly fallen back into his less than healthy coping strategies – drinking too much wine, enduring broken sleeps peppered with vivid nightmares, and pushing all but those closest to him away. Sadly, the circle of those Athos trusted was woefully small, necessitating nearly all of Aramis' and Porthos' attention to keep their friend from imploding.
The result was that all three men were worn to the bone, their emotions too close to the surface to adequately control. Despite their best intentions, Aramis and Porthos had little left to offer their fourth, and things between them had continued to unravel at an almost dizzying rate – that was made more than evident by d'Artagnan's reaction when he'd been hurt.
Though it pained him enormously, Aramis had reached the difficult decision to respect d'Artagnan's need to distance himself; however, he'd been unable to let things drop until he'd satisfied himself that the Gascon was alright. That need had prompted him to ask Filleul to check on the lad, hoping that d'Artagnan would be willing to accept care from another.
That d'Artagnan had agreed imbued Aramis with a mixture of relief and sadness, leaving him wondering if they would ever return to their previous solidarity in which he'd once more be trusted with the young man's physical and emotional ills. With a last glance upwards to where the Gascon's room was located, Aramis pushed away from wall at his back, shifting his attention to the matter of tracking down his other two friends.
A/N: Thanks to AZGirl for proofing; remaining mistakes are all mine.