Author's Notes: Companion to my story, "You Weren't There". I wasn't sure about this, but Red Tigress encouraged me and put up with my random messages and questions and emoting. And I appreciate it more than I can say.
*This is not a happy fic and contains scenes of physical torture and violence. Nothing too graphic, but it ain't sunshine and roses.
**Takes place during the war and with the possibility that Aramis did not re-join the Musketeers for it.
I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.
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"D'Artagnan, you need to come with me."
D'Artagnan looked up as Alain jogged toward him.
"Why? Is something wrong?"
"Porthos just...sat up. I think he's..." Alain's hands fluttered in frustration. "Awake? Really awake?"
"Where's Athos?"
"He's ridden to Pau. Some meeting with the generals."
He cursed. He'd forgotten that Athos was not due back until tomorrow night.
There was only him.
Alain was looking at him strangely. "Do you have some other orders? I'm sure the Captain would understand..."
"Uh, no. I'm coming."
D'Artagnan took a deep breath before he stepped into the tent he'd been too afraid to enter for days.
Porthos was sitting on the edge of his cot, hunched over. Healing scabs and livid scars lined his bare back.
"Porthos?" said D'Artagnan cautiously. He moved slowly and smoothly.
He knows you wouldn't hurt him.
He knelt down.
D'Artagnan expected anger or fear. He'd been ready for it.
Nothing prepared him for the utter heartbreak on Porthos' face. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Porthos, what is it?" The big man didn't acknowledge him. Unfocused eyes saw something known only to him.
"Please...don't," d'Artagnan whispered. He reached out and held Porthos' face, thumbs wiping at tears that didn't stop. "I'm here. You are safe. No one is going to hurt you. I promise, Porthos, I promise. I will gut anyone who tries." He let his fingers smooth over cheekbones that were too pronounced under hollowed eyes.
He almost wished for the blankness.
Here was evidence Porthos was aware, but he looked crushed. Hopeless.
"I know you're in pain. And I wish...I don't know what you need," d'Artagnan lamented. "I don't know what to give you. But I am here. And I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving you, Porthos."
For a second, Porthos' dark eyes focused on d'Artagnan's. And then they fell closed and carefully, slowly, Porthos tilted forward enough his forehead rested on d'Artagnan's shoulder.
D'Artagan nearly broke down in sobs.
He gently threaded his fingers through Porthos' hair, desperate to hold him in a way that wouldn't hurt or trap. "I'm here," d'Artagnan repeated thickly. "I'm right here."
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When Athos rode into camp the next evening, d'Artagnan was waiting for him.
"What is it?" asked Athos, swinging down from his horse.
"It's Porthos." Athos stepped very close, cool eyes searched his face.
"Did something happen?"
"He...he sat up. Awake, but different...he...he was crying. He never said anything, didn't make a sound, but...he saw me. I swear to you, Athos, he looked at me. Knew me."
"And he said nothing?" D'Artagnan shook his head.
"He just wept. Cried himself out and fell asleep. That was late last night."
"And then?" D'Artagnan frowned.
"He was awake today. Still won't talk, but...he's in there. I can see it now."
Athos stared at him and then gave a sigh.
"That is good news," he said with a smile, but he still looked troubled.
"What happened in Pau?" Athos glanced around.
"There is talk," he said quietly, "of a mission into Spain. Uriz. There is a major munitions supply there, reportedly."
"You don't seem very convinced." Athos' face was unreadable.
"It does not matter. The King has had ordered us to be ready to move south. Perhaps as early as the end of the week. And the King does not rely upon my opinion."
"Was Treville there?"
"He was."
"And?"
"The benefit could be huge. A crippled Spanish army early on...if we destroy that magazine...this could all end a lot sooner than anyone anticipated. He thinks it is worth the risk." Athos shook himself and moved toward his tent. "We have the week to prepare."
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After a quick meal, Athos gathered a pile of accounts and letters and moved to the medical tent. Porthos was sprawled on a cot, asleep. Athos pulled over a chair and regarded his friend.
He was wearing a shirt.
Before, his back had been weeping and raw. And when he'd shown no awareness, it had just been easier. Easier for the surgeons. They'd cover him with a light blanket, but there was no need for a shirt.
He'd been moveable and compliant. Drank when urged, moved when prodded.
But there was no spark. Nothing that made him Porthos.
Athos reached out and touched the soft material with cautious fingertips.
A shirt.
Athos needed d'Artagnan to be right.
He sat back and opened a letter. And another.
The pile next to his chair grew.
Requests for twenty sacks of oats.
Inquiry about feed for the newly arrived cattle.
Scouting report from the southeast.
He read over the missives until he felt the weight of a gaze and looked up.
And looked again.
Porthos was watching him.
Not just staring at nothing, but looking at him with recognition.
The papers crinkled in his clenching fists and he forced them to relax. The press of questions and fears and words and worries threatened to choke him.
"Porthos?"
Porthos lifted an eyebrow and gave Athos such a look, he felt ridiculous for asking.
Porthos was still here. Still with him.
And he let out the breath he'd been holding. And the fear that had been strangling him for weeks, ever since Porthos had disappeared, loosened its grip on his heart.
"I'm glad to see you, my friend," he whispered.
Porthos stared at him a moment and then nodded. He grimaced and shifted, resting his chin on his fist. Then he looked at the wrinkled reports in Athos' lap and back up to his face.
Expectant.
Athos looked at all the paperwork that Porthos was clearly interested in. And smiled.
Then he proceeded to read the dispatches out loud.
And Porthos listened.
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A messenger galloped into camp five days later and handed a sealed parchment to Athos.
Athos nodded his understanding.
He turned and walked to his tent. He was rolling up a map when d'Artagnan followed him in.
"We're riding out tomorrow. Let everyone know the plan is moving forward." He paused. "I have to tell Porthos." D'Artagnan winced. "He cannot accompany us. I'm not certain he could walk across the camp, let alone ride for hours. This mission has to be swift and precise."
D'Artagnan's brow furrowed and he looked pained.
"Do you disagree?"
"What? No. I don't envy you telling him, that's for certain. It's something else." Athos raised an eyebrow and waited. "If we die," asked d'Artagnan, "who will look after him?"
Athos looked at the wood grain beneath his fingertips in detail.
"Porthos is rather good at looking after himself. But I've explained to Treville. He'll make sure Porthos gets assigned somewhere."
"Back to Paris?" Athos lifted his head.
"I don't think I need to tell you how little Porthos would like that plan."
"I know." The young man chewed his thumb. "If he loses us...I wrote to Constance. Told her that if...someone needed to know."
"You were not wrong to do so," said Athos. "It is a comfort. Knowing our friends will watch over him, if we cannot."
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Porthos was standing next to his cot, rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms. He was unsteady and tired easily, but it was good to see him moving around and seemingly without much pain.
He was still unsettlingly silent. Sometimes he would sit and stare for hours, but it wasn't vacant, like before. Porthos was clearly thinking through something. Athos could relate.
Attentive eyes snapped up to greet him.
"We've been ordered on a mission," said Athos. Porthos' head tilted. "Tomorrow, I will take twenty Musketeers for a strike into Spain." Athos spread out the map on a cot, pointing to Uriz. "There is a large store of weapons there. We mean to destroy it. We will rendezvous with another company here." He traced a finger down to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. "From them on we will travel to Uriz." He looked up at Porthos. "It's just across the border. All told, we should be back here in two or three days."
Porthos crouched down and took in the map, the routes, the distance.
Athos didn't want a fight. He didn't want to point out all the reasons Porthos could not come. All the things that would make him feel weak and broken.
"It would ease my mind, knowing you were safe here."
Porthos looked up at him.
Athos gazed back. Studied how thin his face was beneath an unruly beard. The lines around his eyes and how fiercely they shone.
He wondered what Porthos saw. Did he look as worn and ragged as he felt?
Porthos rolled up the map. When he stood up and handed it back to Athos, he gave him a soft nod. He didn't look angry, just resigned.
"You've done a great deal," murmured Athos. "It's only fair the rest of us do our part."
Porthos rewarded him with the smallest of smiles. Wistful and fleeting. But a smile that Athos would cherish for days to come.
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A/N: I'm on tumblr! Come say hi!