Aramis allowed Athos a moment with d'Artagnan before awkwardly clearing his throat. When the older man looked his way, the medic said, "I need to have a look." One hand fluttered vaguely toward the Gascon's back and Athos nodded in understanding, shifting his position slightly to allow the other man access, but staying close enough to leave his hand where it was.
"d'Artagnan," Aramis leaned in closer and waited until he had his friend's attention. "How are you feeling?" As he waited for a reply, his fingers moved to cut away the bandages covering the young man's wound, wanting to save his friend the pain of unwrapping them.
"Fuzzy," the Gascon eventually replied, his eyes drifting momentarily to his shoulder before closing them.
Not ready to allow d'Artagnan to sleep yet, Aramis posed another question. "How is your pain? It's been a few hours and you can probably have another draught now if you need it."
The Gascon seemed to consider the medic's offer, finally prising his lids open as he replied, "M' head hurts."
Aramis' head shot up, his fingers pausing their motion as he asked, "What about your shoulder?"
d'Artagnan licked his lips before slurring, "Numb."
Athos frowned in concern at the medic, who gave a small shake of his head in reply, not wanting to upset his patient when it was likely too early to tell whether or not the stab wound had caused irreparable harm. "That may a good thing," the marksman remarked lightly. "Especially since I need to have a look at it."
The Gascon gave a slight dip of his chin, letting Aramis know that he understood. Aramis peeled back the poultice from d'Artagnan's back, setting it aside before gently wiping away the remaining residue. Although his touch remained light, he felt a small thrill of relief when the pressure of the cloth he was wielding pulled a moan of pain from his friend. "I'm sorry, d'Artagnan."
With his eyes tightly closed, and his face pinched by the freshly-awakened ache of his wound, the young man softly breathed out, "S'alright."
Setting the soiled cloth aside, Aramis carefully pressed at the inflamed skin around the wound, worrying his bottom lip for a moment when a foul, yellowish liquid oozed out. "Seems this infection is not quite done with you yet," the medic stated, already reaching for another square of linen to wipe away the unwelcome fluid. When he'd finished, he sat back for several seconds as he considered his options. On one hand, it was possible that the poultice would draw out whatever was making their friend sick, so patience could be their best course of action. On the other hand, it was possible that the poultice wasn't having any effect, and waiting longer to open the wound and clean it out could have disastrous and permanent consequences.
"Aramis," Athos' voice prompted him from his musings and he started slightly, gracing his friend with a faint smile when he noticed that the older man was once more wiping down the Gascon's face with a damp cloth. "What do we do now?"
The Captain's choice of words made Aramis' lips turn up a little more, Athos making it clear that the medic was not alone in this situation, no matter how much he might feel that way. Exhaling slowly, he purposely mirrored the older man's words as he said, "We have a decision to make. I can make up another poultice and give it more time to work, or open up the wound and attempt to clean out the infection."
Aramis could see the expression of worry on Athos' face deepen as he processed the medic's words. "If you open the wound, would it not start bleeding again?"
The medic nodded reluctantly, the older man having exactly voiced his own concerns. It would do them no good to cure the infection if their patient died of blood loss instead. As if sensing the men's quandary, d'Artagnan surprised them both by speaking. "Take the stitches out."
Aramis shifted his focus back to the injured man. "d'Artagnan, you've already lost a lot of blood." The Gascon chose that moment to shiver in reply, adding credence to the medic's words. "I'm not sure how much more you can afford to lose."
With effort, d'Artagnan forced his eyes open, pinning his friend with a look that conveyed as much confidence as he could muster. "It's the best chance?" he asked, the medic pausing for several seconds before grudgingly nodding. "Then do it."
The medic began to shake his head, but the Gascon's words stopped him. "Trust you." The effort of speaking had sapped d'Artagnan's meagre strength and his eyes slipped closed, leaving the two friends staring at one another as they decided how to proceed.
"Athos," Aramis said, his expression lost as he looked to the older man for advice.
The Captain had a look of resignation on his face as he replied, "Do it." The medic held the other man's gaze for several moments before his shoulders slumped in resignation. Silently, he stood and began gathering the supplies he would need. As he did so, one thought continued to repeat endlessly in his aching head - what if I've chosen incorrectly and he dies?
With his back turned to Athos, he let his head momentarily fall to his chest, closing his eyes as he tried to push the terrifying notion from his mind. Silently, he said a short prayer, asking God for the courage to do what needed to be done. Drawing a shaky breath, he steeled his nerve, and finished collecting his things. Forcing all thoughts of failure from his head, he retook his seat, noting idly that his hand wasn't even shaking as he cut through the first stitch in d'Artagnan's skin.
Porthos shrugged deeper into the blanket that sat around his shoulders, his eyes resting for several seconds on the bottle of brandy sitting in front of him, before looking away again. As much as it was tempting to indulge in Athos' favorite coping mechanism, he needed to keep a clear head while in charge. He'd allowed himself only two glasses. The first had burned a fiery path down his throat and into his belly as he'd fairly gulped the strong liquid. The second glass had been savoured, some part of Porthos' brain knowing that he could not allow himself another, no matter how strong the desire.
Now, his glass was again empty and it would be obvious to the Captain that his supply of brandy had been pillaged, but Porthos was certain his friend would understand. He hadn't been able to find the energy to leave Athos' office, and had only managed to pull a scratchy blanket from his friend's bed in order to stave off the evening chill. Bleary eyes moved to check the moon's position through the window, and he was unsurprised to find that it was still the middle of the night. He had no idea why he'd chosen to stay awake rather than going to sleep, but had instinctively known that he'd be unable to rest while the others were away.
By now, the message he'd written to Athos should have arrived, and there was nothing left to do but wait; it was unfortunate that he wasn't sure exactly what he was waiting for. It was possible that another missive would arrive from Lorraine's estate, providing an update on d'Artagnan's condition, which Porthos dearly hoped was improving. It was just as possible that there would be no additional messages until the Gascon was fit enough to travel, leaving Porthos waiting and wondering, with an unfortunately fertile imagination conjuring up the worst possible scenarios, one after the other.
He hated waiting. Inactivity was akin to a day without wine for Athos and a day without a woman's touch for Aramis. He was not proud to admit that patience had never been a virtue he'd successfully mastered, and a hint of a smile spread across his face as he thought about how the marksman would tease him about his inability to wait. In fact, Aramis had done exactly that, the last time they'd found themselves in a similar situation.
Four years earlier
"We should go find out what's going on," Porthos groused again, causing the marksman to roll his eyes good-naturedly, but otherwise completely ignore his friend's comment. It had been like this for the last three hours, with the larger man alternating between vocally and physically conveying his frustration at their current situation. Aramis wasn't any happier about how things had unfolded, but he at least had the good sense to acknowledge that the situation was in good hands. Until they received word to the contrary, their best course of action was to simply be patient and wait.
Porthos' ire only seemed to grow when he realized that Aramis had no intention of replying, and he turned and completed another circuit of the small room, gritting his teeth as he did so. The marksman's keen eyes took note of the sheen of sweat that covered the larger man's brow, and the crinkled skin around his eyes, signalling unspoken discomfort. Clearing his throat, Aramis kept his tone casual as he said, "Why don't you sit down? I'm sure it won't be much longer."
Porthos threw him a caustic look that clearly conveyed what he thought of the medic's suggestion, before pacing across the space once more. It was not that he discounted his friend's opinion, but he'd never been the overly patient sort. Growing up in the Court of Miracles had taught him the lesson that action was necessary for survival, and it was a lesson he'd learned well. How could he possibly change something so ingrained now when, even as a Musketeer, he was often applauded for his ability to do something when others could or would not?
No, he shook his head to himself, waiting was not the answer. Having reached a decision, his next circuit of the room brought him to the door where he found himself face to face with a determined Aramis. "Outa my way," Porthos ordered lowly, resisting the urge to place a hand against one wall as he glared at his friend.
The marksman was unfazed, even daring to grin cheekily at the larger man as he crossed his arms and leaned languidly against the door at his back. "No."
Porthos rolled his eyes as he realized that the other man would not be intimidated into moving. "Aramis," he growled, hoping to convey the depth of his irritation, prompting his friend to move.
If possible, Aramis' grin only widened as he repeated his earlier answer. "No."
"Aw, 'Mis," Porthos' head dropped for a moment and he swayed, the marksman immediately reaching for his arm to steady him. Within moments, Aramis was leading the large man back to bed, lowering him gently onto the mattress.
Porthos' breathing had quickened as the extended amount of time on his feet took its toll. Wincing and biting his lip against the pain, he remained pliable while the marksman lifted his legs onto the bed, releasing a long, shaky exhale as he leaned back into the pillows at his back.
"You've overdone it," Aramis scolded, although his eyes shone with unbridled concern. It was difficult to be mad at his friend, given how pathetic he looked, wearing nothing more than an off-white shirt and his braies, the latter which had been slit neatly along the length of one leg. "You need to rest if you want to heal properly. May I?" The medic indicated Porthos' bandaged thigh, and the larger man shrugged in agreement, giving his friend permission to check his wound.
Aramis was gentle as he sliced through the heavy bandaging that supported the stitches holding Porthos' skin and muscle together. The slice had been long and deep, bringing the large man to the ground as soon as the blade had landed. It had bled heavily, leaving Porthos incredibly weak and shaking from a combination of pain and blood loss. For the first twelve hours after the injury, Aramis had been uncertain whether his friend was strong enough to battle back from the horrific wound, until slowly, hour by hour, Porthos' breathing and color began to return to normal.
As the large man had begun to recover his strength, the next enemy they had to fight was boredom; Porthos was never good at staying still for long periods of time, unless there was a card game involved. As expected, he'd pushed to do more than his body could manage, and to date, had popped the stitches in his leg on two separate occasions. Aramis was relatively certain that today's desperate pacing wouldn't mark a third occurrence, and that Porthos' leg was merely overly fatigued from the amount of time he'd spent on his feet.
As the bandages fell away, the marksman was pleased to see that the cut was still closed, none of the stitches torn, and only a few spots of red appearing as small dots along some of the bits of thread. He looked up to see Porthos frowning at his traitorous leg, the large man's thoughts easily read by the expression on his face. "There's nothing you can do," Aramis reminded his friend. Porthos huffed, even though rationally he knew the medic was right. "Athos and d'Artagnan will be fine – you'll see. I'd wager they'll be back with us by dinnertime," the marksman continued.
Porthos' expression was still dark. Aramis knew that his friend was bothered by the fact that their brothers were on a mission alone, but realized there was more to the large man's discontent. "You did the right thing," the marksman stated.
The injured man huffed once more, although there seemed to be less vehemence in the action this time than the last. "Could you have lived with yourself if you'd done nothing?" Aramis asked.
Porthos' gaze locked with the medic's, his expression shifting quickly from outrage to annoyance as he realized what his friend was trying to do. He cast his mind back to the night one week ago when he'd spotted three men robbing and beating their hapless victim. That the men's prey was a Red Guard didn't stop Porthos for an instant, as he'd immediately thrown himself at the attackers and come to the soldier's defense. Aramis and the others had been several steps behind the large Musketeer; it took them longer than they'd cared to admit to react and join the melee. By the time they'd arrived, Porthos had already dispatched two of the thieves, but they were too late to stop the last one from injuring their friend.
Aramis had immediately dropped to his knees at Porthos' side, pressing his hands against the river of red that seemed to flow from the large man's leg, while Athos and d'Artagnan had dealt with the robber. As the medic had knelt there, waiting for his two friends to finish, the ungrateful Red Guard had staggered to his feet. "I need your help," Aramis had hissed at the man, needing to find something to hold against the wound, but unwilling to move his hands away for the amount of time it would take to find a makeshift bandage.
To his disgust, the rescued man had gotten one look at the dusky hue of Porthos' skin and the pauldron on his shoulder, and sneered as he'd spat, "He don't deserve my help." In amazement, Aramis had watched the repulsive man stumble away, leaving his rescuer bleeding into the dirt. Despite the Red Guard's actions, Porthos had shown no remorse for having come to the man's aid, and still didn't regret that he'd done so.
Reminded of that fact, the injured man grudgingly replied, "No, but it was still a damn stupid reason to get hurt."
Aramis smiled at his friend, clearly humouring him, but his words were serious when he spoke. "I still wish you'd let us track him down and thank him for his help."
Porthos' eyes were full of warmth at the concern being shown by the marksman, and he placed his hand on his friend's forearm as he said, "You know what they say about no good deed." Aramis had grimaced at the comment, but had let the topic drop as he'd cleaned and re-wrapped his friend's wound. Then, in companionable silence, the two men had waited for their friends to return.
A/N: One more chapter to go, which will be up tomorrow. Thanks to my beta AZGirl for catching my mistakes.
