A/N: Thank you Laureleaf and Uia for your reviews! And Laureleaf, even if you don't need my thanks, you have it anyway. ;) You might also like to know that I'm currently working on chapter 9 for the Luciole series. XD
Here's the h/c for this one. ^_^
Chapter 4
It was a slow journey back to the garrison by cart. D'Artagnan and Porthos went with Aramis while Athos remained at the storehouse to retain command of the scene. D'Artagnan wondered if so many arrests at one incident was a new kind of record. And if there were any high born to be found among that audience, well, the scandal would make things even more complicated.
Aramis had lost consciousness en route. D'Artagnan and Porthos had done their best to stop the bleeding on the way, but the wounds were a grisly mess. Once they entered the garrison courtyard, the two hopped out of the cart and unloaded the litter Aramis was already lying on. The surgeon was waiting when they carried him into the infirmary and transferred him to a long table. Captain Treville was there as well.
"What happened?" he demanded.
"Bastards thought to make Aramis tonight's entertainment," Porthos growled.
"We only just got there in time," d'Artagnan added. "Athos stayed behind to oversee all the arrests."
The captain shook his head. "Doctor?" he queried.
The man in question tutted as he peeled the soiled bandages away from the wounds. "Most of this is too jagged for needlework. All I can do is clean and bandage them, and even then, the risk of infection or disease from an animal attack like this is great."
"I'll have extra wine brought in," Treville said, and then excused himself.
"Young man," the doctor said, gesturing to d'Artagnan. "If I could trouble you to boil some water."
"Of course." He leaped at the opportunity to help, hurrying from the room to the kitchen where he could quickly heat some water in the cooking hearth.
When he returned, the doctor had cut away Aramis's shirt from the neck wounds and was currently doing the same to the breeches and underclothes to expose the leg.
"Well," the man fussed, "I dare say the dirt packed in here helped restrict the flow of blood. But it will be an arduous task cleaning it all out."
D'Artagnan grimaced at the thought, but set the bowl of water nearby and stepped close to the table. "What can I do?"
The physician gave him an appraising look before apparently deeming him competent with a curt nod. "Flush the leg with wine, then water until it runs clean. Then I'll debride whatever's left." Done with his instructions, he moved back to the wounds on Aramis's neck and shoulder.
D'Artagnan swallowed hard as he picked up a flask of wine and poured it over the ragged leg. The muscle jerked in response, but Aramis didn't regain consciousness. D'Artagnan threw a look at Porthos, who silently moved to stand by in case the marksman did wake and needed to be held down.
D'Artagnan switched to water, pouring it over the claw marks in stages as murky red soaked into the torn breeches and spilled onto the table. He repeated the process nearly six times before it started to run clear.
"Okay," he said, looking up at the surgeon who was finishing up with the shoulder.
The doctor nodded and beckoned for him to take his place. D'Artagnan moved to Aramis's head and searched the lax face for signs of wakening. Tremors of pain occasionally tightened the lines around his mouth and eyes, but he remained out. It was probably for the best.
The surgeon used his tools to finish the debridement of the leg, then finished off with another soak of wine. "Now bandages. And then I'm afraid the rest is up to your friend."
"He'll be fine," Porthos said. "He's too stubborn to die."
D'Artagnan quirked his mouth at that; there was some truth in it.
Aramis's shirt was in tatters, so they proceeded to just cut the rest of it off. Porthos held him up as the doctor tightly wrapped his neck and shoulder in layer after layer of linen bandages. D'Artagnan made sure to cover the recently cleaned thigh wound before removing the dirty breeches. He left the braes, as they were mostly intact save for the tears and blood near the wound. The doctor wrapped his thigh next, and once all that was done, they moved Aramis to one of the beds.
D'Artagnan didn't know whether Treville had been waiting outside the whole time or he just had a sixth sense about it, but he came back into the infirmary at that moment and the physician went to debrief him. Porthos had settled in a chair by Aramis's side, but d'Artagnan needed some air after all that. He'd seen Aramis stitch up a life threatening injury on Porthos and make it seem like just another day's work. But participating himself was anything but.
He ran a hand through his hair as he stepped into the empty courtyard. Anyone not on duty at the palace had gone on the raid, and who knew how long they'd be busy cleaning up after that.
"D'Artagnan."
He jerked his head up at Constance's voice and saw her coming through the archway. She still looked pale with dark crescents under her eyes that bespoke of poor sleep and a grieving heart.
"Constance, hey," he said, hurrying to meet her.
She offered him a wan quarter of a smile. "Where is everyone? Have- have you had any progress with…?"
"Actually, yes. We found the people responsible. They- they were taking people off the street to use as…" He grimaced. "Baiters," he finished. "For bears."
Constance's eyes widened in horror. "Who would do such a thing?" she exclaimed.
"People with no conscience. But we caught them all. Athos is still at the scene trying to sort it all out. They won't hurt anyone else ever again."
Her eyes welled with tears. "Oh, Eustace. 'E must have been so frightened."
"Hey." D'Artagnan took her into his arms. He couldn't offer her any words of comfort, for the harsh reality was it had been a horrible way to die. "I'm sorry."
He held her for a few moments before she lifted her head.
"If Athos is still at the scene, what are you doing here?"
"Aramis was wounded. The doctor just finished tending to him."
She quickly wiped at her eyes. "I'd like to see 'im."
D'Artagnan knew that was more demand than request and silently escorted her into the infirmary where the doctor was packing up his supplies.
"Madame Bonacieux," Treville greeted.
Constance frowned as she took in Aramis's condition. "What on earth happened?"
D'Artagnan hesitated. "He, um, ended up in the pit with the bear."
"What!"
"He'll be fine," d'Artagnan repeated Porthos's earlier declaration.
"If infection doesn't set in," the doctor corrected. "I've left a pain draught if needed when he wakes. Send for me if he develops a fever." With that, the doctor left.
"I'll stay and help tend to him," Constance volunteered.
"You don't have to—" d'Artagnan began, but the captain interrupted.
"If you're certain it's no trouble, that would be helpful, Madame Bonacieux. Porthos, d'Artagnan, as much as I know you'd rather be here, there is a lot to take care of with all these arrests and reports to be made."
Porthos did look disgruntled by the veiled order, but he nevertheless stood up and shuffled away from the bed.
Constance put a hand on his arm as he passed. "I'll watch over him."
He gave her a nod in return. D'Artagnan smiled her way before following the captain out. The sooner they cleaned up this mess, the sooner they could get back.
o.0.o
Constance supposed she should have sent word to her husband of where she was and her intentions to stay, but Bonacieux had been preoccupied lately and rather discomfited in his handling of her grief. For all he knew, she was likely with Eustace's family while they were in mourning.
Since Aramis was unconscious and Constance disliked being idle, she took it upon herself to straighten up and organize the items in the garrison's infirmary, pausing periodically to check on the patient and make sure a fever wasn't setting in. Outside was unusually quiet, and Constance would think her and Aramis the only two left in the whole garrison if it weren't for the occasional movements of the stable boy and old Serge.
An irrational part of her worried for d'Artagnan. Even though it sounded as though the criminals had been apprehended, the idea of having to deal with men so heinous they would commit such atrocious acts against their fellow man turned her stomach. But d'Artagnan was with Athos and Porthos and Captain Treville, and so there was no reason to worry.
A soft noise from the bed drew her out of her morose thoughts and she quickened to the chair set beside it. Aramis's face scrunched up as he shifted, a moan rumbling in his throat.
"Easy now," she soothed, reaching out to lightly touch his forearm. "You're in the garrison infirmary."
His brow furrowed and his eyelids fluttered open. "Constance?" His gaze lolled around the room.
"Everyone's still busy with the arrests," she explained. "I offered to sit with you until they get back."
"Your face is certainly a more angelic sight to wake up to than Porthos's," he said before his breath caught with a pained grimace.
"Flattery will get you nowhere." She reached behind her for the pain draught the doctor had left. "Here, somethin' for the pain." With her other hand, she lifted his head and helped him drink.
He only took two sips before pulling away with a grunt. His gaze drifted down to the bandages across his torso and he lifted his opposite arm to reach up toward them.
Constance caught his hand and guided it back down. "Leave that. The doctor said it couldn't be stitched, so he had to bind it tightly. There's still risk of infection."
Aramis hummed and closed his eyes.
She prodded his uninjured shoulder. "You should eat somethin'. Then you can rest more."
He opened his eyes to narrow his gaze at her. "I take it back. You're not an angel but a devil woman."
She huffed. "I'd slap you if you weren't wounded. Now come on. Serge left some broth and you need to keep your strength up."
Without waiting for consent, she stood and slipped her arms under his back. It went less smoothly than if one of the men had been around to do it, but she nevertheless got an extra pillow stuffed between Aramis and the headboard so he could recline at a slight angle. She could tell he was trying to be stoic in the face of the pain, though whether out of pride or deference to her, she couldn't be sure.
She handed him the bowl of warm broth and watched carefully as he kept his wounded arm tucked close to his chest and lifted the bowl with his other. Rather than attempting to use the spoon, he merely drank from the lip. Again, he only managed a couple of sips before he had to stop, eyes squeezing shut under a wave of pain.
"I'm sorry," Constance blurted.
He shot her a bewildered look. "Whatever for?"
"If I hadn't come to you all, you never would've been put in such danger."
His lips quirked at her and he lowered the bowl to his lap. "Constance, it's our duty to protect the people of France. The disappearances would have come to our attention eventually. Think of the lives you saved by telling us sooner than that."
She heaved a sigh. "I know you're right. Still…"
Aramis smiled. "We would never let anything happen to d'Artagnan," he promised.
She ignored the insinuation by drawing her shoulders back. "I worry about the rest of you too, you know," she said sternly. "And what were you thinking taking on a bear?"
He leaned his head back against the pillows. "I'm afraid they gave me little choice in the matter. I just thank God the others arrived in time." His expression fell and he met her eyes. "My deepest condolences for your friend, Constance."
She felt her eyes grow wet and a lump constrict her throat. Forcing a smile onto her face, she reached out to pat his arm. "I'm just glad you didn't join 'im."
The door creaked open and she looked over her shoulder as the rest of the famed Inseparables entered, including d'Artagnan.
"You look better," Porthos commented with a grin.
"How are you feeling?" d'Artagnan asked.
"Alive," Aramis replied. "What happened back at the storehouse?"
"We finally finished all the arrests," Athos answered. "Flaubert, the man Porthos had followed when you split up, has identified all the main players and they're all accounted for. The magistrate has filed charges against every spectator in the crowd that night as well, though there's no way to prove who was there on previous nights when victims were thrown into the pit."
Constance's stomach clenched.
"Yeah, but those who enjoyed the sport would have likely been there for every one," Porthos put in. "An' it won't happen again. Unlike Bonnaire, these folks have nothin' to offer the King or Cardinal to buy their way out."
Constance frowned, unsure exactly what he was referring to, though she didn't like the sound of it. "So, it's over?" she asked.
Athos nodded.
She let out a breath of relief. "Alright then, you all can leave now. And you," she said, turning to Aramis. "Finish that broth so you can get some more rest."
"You'd make a fine Mother Superior, has anyone ever told you that?" he rejoined with a smirk.
"Don't think I won't remember to slap you once you're better."
Porthos snorted and started toward the door. "Good luck, mate."
"Do let us know if you need anything," Athos said, following him out.
"Maybe I could stay…?" d'Artagnan offered, but Constance waved sharply at him.
"Shoo. This is a house of healing, not loitering." Or flirting, which was where she was sure his mind had gone. Hers too if she were honest.
"But…"
She backed him toward the door and gave him a playful shove. "Go."
His eyes twinkled before he finally left and Constance turned back toward her patient. She shook her head fondly when she found Aramis slumped back against the pillows, the half-empty bowl of broth slack in his hand and almost spilling onto the sheets. She scooped it up and set it safely on the table, then pulled the blanket up to drape over him. Her hand brushed against his brow to check for fever, pleased to find none.
Then she settled in for another silent vigil. Because as she'd grown closer to d'Artagnan, she'd realized he came with three additional brothers, who by association were becoming hers as well.
And she didn't mind it at all.