Thank you so much for the lovely comments! I loved reading them. This chapter is slightly gruesome in the first paragraph, which is basically hurt!Porthos and protective!Aramis. These characters are not mine, as always. Enjoy!

Porthos' face was deathly pale, his eyes tired and bloodshot. Bruises stretched along his jaw and there was a bloody graze at the very top of his head. A large bandage was wrapped around his right arm, but blood was starting to soak through. He counted eight cuts, shallow but jagged, his two years as a medical student shining through. The worst was just below his collarbone, where he could see a few untidy stitches holding it together. It was long and jagged and quite deep, still bleeding sluggishly. A few inches higher and it would have severed his jugular. He would be dead. Another was just below his ribcage, stitched up again. It wasn't as long and looked shallower, mirroring another a bit higher up. Three others looked bad, two with bandages loosely wrapped around them. Purpling bruises stretched across his ribcage and blossomed down his side like a gruesome flower. On his side was a collection of tiny scars amid the blackening bruise. It was a grisly oil painting, a gruesome masterpiece.

He didn't know what to say.

"You shouldn't have come."

Then suddenly he did. He was rushing over and falling to his knees and checking Porthos' temperature and fishing around for some bandages. In his satchel was a small first aid kit he always carried, and he didn't pause for breath as he arranged it next to Porthos on the bed. Then he was cursing louder than Porthos was and cleaning the wounds as best he could with antiseptic wipes and struggling for a coherent order to force all these thoughts into. As he spoke he bandaged the wounds he needed to, keeping an eye on his right shoulder that was still bleeding.

"You're an idiot: the woman who was here said to tell you that."

"Her name's Flea."

It took him aback slightly, but then his hands were working furiously again and the stream of words were spewing out of his mouth. "You're an absolute idiot. How could you get yourself this badly hurt? How could you lie there and not even tell your friends that you're a punching bag? How could you care so little about your own safety? How are we supposed to perform a damn play if you're not there? If you die in some bed somewhere because you're not in a hospital? How could you be so selfish and go and get attacked in the streets and not check yourself into the damn A & E?"

"You don't know me." The words were controlled and certain, but there was a shimmering anger then. Porthos was staring right at him, right into him, and it was enough to make the words freeze in his head.

"I know that I don't know you. I don't know where you get those bruises every day, where you came from. I didn't know where you lived until an hour or so ago." He breathed in, going to rub his hand on his face before noticing the blood beneath his fingernails. "But I care about you, Porthos." He made eye contact, willing his feelings to penetrate his brain. He wanted them to paint themselves on the back of his eyelids, echo around Porthos' head until he finally understood. "I want to know you."

Porthos went quiet for a long time after that. Aramis cleaned the dried blood away – thankfully when that was gone he looked less like a zombie and more like an actual human – and unwrapped the bandage around his arm. He sucked in a sharp breath as he took it in. The wound itself was small but deep enough, and the blood didn't seem to be stopping. "I'm going to have to stitch it. How many painkillers have you had?"

"None. Didn't have any in. Just stitch. Flea did. I can handle it." I don't want you to just handle it. I want to hold you tight and make it somehow okay. That was what he wanted to say. But instead he just nodded and threaded his needle. Porthos grunted in pain when the needle first went in, his hand instinctively going out to grab Aramis' arm. His vice like grip didn't let up even when Aramis had finished stitching and wrapped a bandage.

"That's the best stitching in all of Paris."

"You're wasted as an actor. You're meant to be seamstress." Porthos actually had the nerve to chuckle at his own joke. Lying on bloody bed sheets, covered with bandages and chuckling at his own damn joke.

"You're an idiot."

"So I've heard." Porthos paused, breathing in steadily. "I want to sit up."

"I want to shag Dean from Supernatural. Wouldn't mind a bit of Sam too. We don't always get what we want." There. He had just come out (maybe). Porthos grinned at him. There was blood on his teeth. "But I suppose we can sit you up if you want." He wrapped his arm around Porthos' bare shoulders, starting to slowly shuffle him up so he could lean against the headrest. His breaths were uneven and pained, and Porthos leant his head on Aramis' shoulder with a huge sigh.

"It hurts, 'Mis." He sounded so tired and vulnerable in that moment, with his hand still wrapped around Aramis' arm. Porthos shuffled across the bed, and Aramis slid onto the duvet next to him. He kept his arm wrapped around Porthos, breathing as one in the little room. "Under the bed." He broke the silence and lifted his head off Aramis' shoulder. He instantly started to miss the contact.

"Sorry?"

"Under the bed. There's a bottle of somethin'." Sure enough, a cool bottle met his fingertips. Whiskey. Aramis unscrewed the top and handed it to Porthos, who took it and took a huge gulp. When he tasted it afterwards it tasted slightly like burning. He took another gulp and passed it back. Then the silence stretched back.

"She's clever." Porthos suddenly broke the silence, pausing to take another gulp of whiskey.

"Who?"

"Flea. She's bright."

"I got that from our conversation. And fierce, too."

"We dated. Well, not dated. We had sex a few times, chose each other to lean on." Maybe talking exes wasn't his ideal conversation, but if it got Porthos talking it was worth it. "She got into law school."

"That's amazing."

"Yeah, it is. Flea, she can be anything. She'll get out of this place, out of this life; move somewhere safe, where she doesn't need to carry a knife to go round to the shops." Aramis didn't reply, just listened to Porthos. "But she can't work, cause she's always studying. And there are two of us who need to eat and pay rent and electricity, and being an unemployed actor doesn't pay too well." His heart was speeding up. Somehow he knew what was coming next. "We look after each other. It's what we do. I needed the money, Aramis. I need the money." Porthos stopped then, taking another gulp of whiskey.

"You fight, don't you? You fight for money." There it was. Out there, floating around in the stuffy air of the little room.

"People make bets, and each match is worth more. So for the first match I'd be paid £100, then for the second I'd be paid £200." Porthos was meeting his eye, trying to make him understand. "So on a bad night I was still making £1000. I've never had money before. And I was paying back all these debts and Flea's textbooks cost money and then I'd still be borrowing to pay rent." Aramis felt ever so slightly sick, and suddenly the room was too small. "So I'd fight again the next night, and the next one."

"And then you start relying on it?" It felt almost like he's floating a million miles away, reliving this conversation a million different ways in another galaxy.

"I guess. The thrill of it; the cheering and the performance; the build up then the climax: it's kinda like a stage."

"Those wounds on your chest didn't come from a fist." Without realising it, he tenderly strokes his finger along Porthos' side, the huge bruise with the host of tiny cuts. They looked like they'd come from something hard repeatedly hitting it. Something like a boot.

"I was too cocky, I guess. I beat this guy easily, and I collected my winnings. Next thing I know I'm in some back alley and they're surrounding me and I'm fighting but there are too many and they brought knives." He paused for a heartbeat, and Aramis tried desperately not to imagine Porthos lying in some alley somewhere. "Managed to inflict some damage of my own though." Porthos grinned his wolfish smile. "They'll be aching tomorrow, the lot of 'em."

"I daresay you'll be aching more." The silence grew again, thicker than before. There were so many things he needed to say.

"Why haven't you gone to a hospital? There's a risk of infection."

"The second they see knife wounds the police'll get involved. The whole fightin' ring's illegal, and if anyone tries to investigate they'll take us all down." "Porthos?"

"Yeah?"

"When the play blows up and we're collecting awards in pressed suits and feel the thrill of a performance every night, you'll stop fighting. Tell me you'll stop. Please." He hated how vulnerable he sounded, but he turned his head to face Porthos anyway. Suddenly their eyes were close together and he could feel his breath on his cheek and their lips were an inch away.

"I promise, Mis." Aramis nodded, and Porthos was so close and filling up the space in front of him and so gorgeous and smelt like mint and leather and… he caught a look at the bruise blooming on Porthos' jaw.

He leant back and stared at his hands. His friend possibly had a concussion, beaten and battered and in need of a friend. What right did Aramis have to kiss him when he was probably pain delirious? So the silence stretched on and on, full of what could have been. His friend deserved everything. Porthos deserved everything. He deserved fiery Flea who was going to be the best lawyer London had ever seen; he deserved Constance and her friendship; he deserved so many awards and he deserved not have to fight every night to try and stay afloat. He didn't need Aramis with his baggage and insecurities to kiss him and hold him and repeat a thousand times that he was gorgeous and that he was Porthos and that was so impressive and unforgettable… he needed a friend.

At some point Flea came back and Porthos drifted off to sleep, and Aramis stood up with aching limbs to leave. Flea nodded at him with something between respect and thankfulness, placing a small kiss on Porthos' forehead. He bowed his head in return, turning to leave the room. There was a pang of something like jealousy, but he buried it.

He was just about to slip out when Flea appeared, following him and closing the door. The lock clicked loudly, and she levelled a challenging gaze at him. "It's dark. Porthos wouldn't appreciate it if his friend got attacked in a back alley."

"I can look out for myself." She didn't say anything, merely flicking her eyes back to the door. That spoke volumes. There were cruel people with knives about, evidently.

If the Court was scary during the day, the night sent shivers down his spine. It was bitterly cold. Every alleyway held the potential of someone armed and dangerous, every shadow morphed into nightmarish creatures and shapes. He nearly leaped a mile when a homeless man rolled over in the gutter.

Flea smirked at him, striding forward into the shadows. "So, how long have you lived here?"

She stayed quiet for a long time. "I was born here. Porthos and I grew up together."

"Um, Porthos mentioned that you got into law school."

"He tells everyone he meets that. He was happier than me when I got in."

"He told me about the boxing. I'm worried for him."

She turned and looked him in the eye. Her gaze was sharp and blue, the polar opposite of Porthos'. "Do you think I'm not? He goes out and comes back with cuts and bruises and fractures. I'm stuck at home studying and trying to make a better life, and I'd give anything to make things better but that isn't the way things are. This is the Court, Aramis." She breathed heavily, turning away and striding off. "I wouldn't expect you to understand. The train's over there."

"I didn't mean to offend. Forgive me." She was already gone, and he waited for the train in a lonely silence.

The next day offered no sign of Porthos, and Aramis sent him a text telling him not to even think about getting up from bed for at least a week. They practiced the scenes he wasn't in, and when lunch rolled around Constance cornered him half way through a wrap.

"Hello."

She smiled, but worry showed through the gnawing on her lip. "Are you hiding something?"

"Sorry?" Constance was a forward person, it was in her nature, but usually she was more succinct than this. Sitting down beside him, she started to tap her fingers against the bench.

"I'm worried about Porthos. Usually if he gets ill he'll be round at mine complaining, or he'll be ringing me every three seconds. But all I get is a text in the morning saying he can't come to rehearsal, without any type of explanation." Deflated, she rested her head on her hand. "I'm worried. And you know something. Don't hide it from us, Aramis. We're a team, aren't we?"

"He asked me not to tell anyone." Slowly crushing him, the secret seemed to weigh him down. He was tired, had spent most of last night patching up a friend he felt he hardly knew, and Constance looked so worried… the words just spilled out.

"I went to see him last night."

Constance nodded, and he could practically hear her brain whirring. "You know about the fighting." He nodded, the words dying in his throat. "He's got a few bruises, but he'll be okay." He wasn't sure whether she was reassuring him or her. "I hate that he fights. I just hate it so much. But it will be okay. He's a strong man, Aramis. When the divorce first started he was my brick." She smiled softly at the memory, and the jealousy almost felt like a knife twisting in his gut.

"I didn't know about the divorce."

"You wouldn't know, I haven't told you."

He could have told her about the knife wounds. About the group of men cornering him in a dark alley. About fierce, protective Flea changing his bloody bed sheets and carrying a knife because she's scared of the same thing happening to her.

He doesn't.

She squeezes him reassuringly on the arm, and heads off to find d'Artagnan. He watches her go. Secrets only manage to crush him more.