Author's Notes: Medical knowledge during this time period was crap. And that makes this tricky.
I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.
"Night is a time of rigor, but also of mercy. There are truths which one can see only when it's dark." ―Isaac Bashevis Singer
Aramis awoke slowly to the feeling of fingers threading through his hair. He ached, his head felt stuffed with cotton. He relaxed into the touch, trying to remember how much he'd drank last night and who's bed he'd ended up in.
Porthos.
Aramis gasped, lifting his head sharply. The hand fell from his head, dark eyes peered at him with an unreadable gaze.
"Porthos?" He dared not hope. He could not bear it if Porthos wasn't completely with him. The large man's brow furrowed in confusion.
"Who else would I be?"
Aramis let his head fall, pressing his suddenly burning eyes to the mattress.
"No one else," he answered brokenly. "I would have you be no one else."
"Aramis?" He looked up again into Porthos' worried face. "What's wrong?"
His heart soared. Porthos knew him. The friend Aramis had known and loved and pleaded for was breathing and looking at him and talking to him and his face hurt with the wide smile that felt like coming home.
"Everything is alright, Porthos. I've just missed you."
"Where'd I go?" murmured Porthos, his hand traveling up to the stitches at his temple. Aramis cleared his throat.
"What do you remember?"
"Doue?" Aramis nodded encouragingly, waiting for the memories to rise. Porthos shut his eyes, fingertips still fretting at his stitches. Aramis gently pulled the hand away, trapping it in his own. Porthos' eyes shot open, filled with panic. "Athos?"
"Athos is fine," soothed Aramis.
As if summoned, the door opened.
"Speak of the devil," said Aramis and his smile only grew at the shock on Athos' face. He stepped quickly to Porthos' side.
"Porthos? How are you?" Porthos' tried to sit up and his answer was lost in a cry of pain.
"Easy, easy," said Aramis. "You have some broken ribs that are going to smart for a while." With instinctual partnership, Athos carefully helped Porthos push up and Aramis quickly fitted extra blankets behind his back. Together, they eased him back and waited for his breathing to even out. Aramis looked across at Athos. His green eyes were drinking Porthos in with something like wonder. He looked so much younger.
Athos built barricades and walls, but Porthos pushed through them with his warm nature as easily as a bird flew.
"Oi," said Porthos eventually, patting Athos' knee. "What did we manage to get into then?" Athos looked up at Aramis. He shook his head minutely. He didn't know what Porthos remembered. And he didn't know about four dead Musketeers.
"Right here," rumbled Porthos, glaring at them fuzzily. "And I have eyes. Out with it." Athos tilted his head slightly and Aramis took the hint.
"Excuse me," he rose slowly, on knees that protested hours on the floor. He shuffled out, shut the door and leaned against the wall and closed his eyes against the early morning light. The long vigil of the night wore on him, he was so very tired.
"Aramis?" He looked up to see d'Artagnan approaching quickly, trepidation all over his young face. "Is he..."
"He woke up," answered Aramis, smiling broadly. "He seems intact and well. He'll be sore for a while, but that is acceptable, given the alternative." D'Artagnan laughed, reaching out to shake Aramis' hand.
"Thank God."
"Yes," agreed Aramis. "Thank God."
"Can I see him?"
"In a little while. Athos is with him now."
"Ah," said d'Artagnan, his smile slipping a little. "Does he remember..."
"I don't think so, but let us leave them to discuss it. Come, let's go tell the Captain."
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
"We went to Doue. Rebels or some such?"
"Probably," mused Athos, "given the amount of gunpowder that went off. We split up to search the grounds. You were in the house when it exploded. Did you see anyone?" Porthos frowned thoughtfully.
"Don't remember. Not even sure I remember going in the house." Porthos looked up at him. "How long was I out?"
"Nearly a day." Porthos started.
"That long?" He gave a low whistle. "That certainly clears up a point or two."
"Does it?" Porthos held out a hand. The cross that the Queen had given Aramis lay in his large palm.
"Musta been serious," said Porthos, watching him carefully. Athos gazed at his friend, trying to imagine his life without this bold storm of a man. He found he could not.
"It was," he said at last. "Porthos,... Michel, Benoit, Thibaut, and Laurent are dead. Etienne lost a leg." Porthos closed his eyes, jaw clenched. Athos reached out and let his fingers circle Porthos' wrist lightly. He was not given to physical displays, to comradely touch. But Porthos was.
After a few moments, Porthos let out a long, pained breath and opened his eyes. They were dark, sad and shining, but settled.
"We'll find who did it," swore Porthos.
"Treville is readying another mission as we speak." Porthos sniffed and nodded.
"I am pleased you are well," murmured Athos. "I never thought I'd be so thankful for your unyielding head." Porthos gave him a sly, sleepy grin.
"I'll be sure to remind you of it, next time you think some spot of trouble is my fault."
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Porthos opened his eyes when he felt gentle fingertips on his head. Aramis smiled down at him and continued his examination.
"How do you feel?"
"Like I got blown up."
"Care to be a bit more expressive?"
"Head hurts. Ribs ache. But I'll live."
"You had better." Porthos could see the lines and shadows around Aramis' eyes, the weary way he dropped himself into the chair by the bed.
"You look like hell."
"It's almost as if someone has been monopolizing my time as of late."
"Couldn't be me. I'd remember," said Porthos with a smirk. He reached out to give Aramis his cross back.
"Bad this time, eh?"
The shift in Aramis was instantaneous as he eyed the offered cross. Instead of taking it, he captured Porthos' hand, pressing the cross between their palms.
"It's bad every time, Porthos," answered Aramis, his voice barely a whisper.
"Hey now," he said, just as softly, dismayed at the sudden change in Aramis. "None of that. I'll be fine and fit soon enough." Aramis nodded, but stayed silent. Porthos was at a loss.
He couldn't promise he'd be more careful. Porthos wasn't reckless, but nor did he shy from battle. He couldn't promise he'd never get hurt again. A soldier couldn't make a promise like that.
So he sat and waited with his friend.
Porthos had nearly dozed off again when Aramis finally spoke, his voice rough and thick with emotion.
"I do not know if God spared you or it was your own stubborn will. Either way, I am grateful. Because..." he paused, eyes heavenward, looking for the words. "Because I do not know how to navigate this world without you." Aramis looked down at him with naked affection, so embracing and strong, he felt his cheeks warm.
"Someone's gotta look after you," Porthos rumbled, clearing his throat. Aramis smiled and Porthos' world righted itself. "I'll take on the task as long as is needed."
"Are you certain?" asked Aramis playfully. "I'm completely incorrigible, that may be a long time. Possibly forever." Porthos smiled back.
"Forever at your side don't frighten me none."
And it was true.
