A/N: I know I'm skating the comfort and angst in places with this story – let me know if I need to dive deeper or if the understatedness is working for you. A big thank you to my readers who I can't respond to directly.

TMTMTM

The first thing that Porthos realised as he watched his friend ride towards him was that the man was greyer than his damn hat. Porthos urged his horse to speed up, concern flooding his veins as Aramis wavered in the saddle. His friend's head came up as if he'd just sighted Porthos ahead and Porthos watched in alarm as the marksman reached for his pistol.

Porthos twisted to glance behind him. Seeing no one, he turned back to find cold eyes pinned to his chest. His heart thudded behind his ribs as his friend raised his arm. The limb shook as if in a wind but the pistol was rock solid on point.

"Aramis," he managed to choke out, then, "Aramis!"

The man's head jerked and Porthos watched in stunned horror as his friend folded forward and out of the saddle.

For one frozen moment Porthos knew he was about to watch his dearest friend be trampled by his own horse.

Then luck or fate intervened and the animal panicked at the shifting weight on its back. It sidestepped Aramis's boneless body as the man hit the ground at its feet.

Porthos leapt off his own horse and charged towards where his friend had fetched up on his side, one arm raised above his head. The man's eyes were closed, his skin no less grey from this much closer. Porthos slid to his knees, his hands reaching for Aramis's face.

No no no, "Aramis," he growled, you'd better not be dead. He wanted to say it but the words lurched in his throat.

Aramis's skin was damp and warm beneath his hand, faint puffs of air against his wrist told him he still lived and some of the panic eased from Porthos's limbs.

He carefully rolled his friend to his back, searching for injury, frowning at the dressing wrapped around his left arm – he hadn't noticed that before. It must have been hidden beneath the cloak across his shoulders that morning. There were no other injuries to see on the surface, though a fall like that could have claimed ribs. Porthos grimaced and ran a hand up and then down both sides of Aramis's ribcage, pressing with his fingers to feel for bones out of place. He breathed a rumbling breath when he found none.

Aramis's breaths on the other hand were shallow and light in a way that made him doubt his friend was even getting enough air.

Porthos sat back on his heels running through his mind yesterday's fight in an effort to remember something that would tell him what was ailing his friend. His eyes grew wide as he watched Aramis twist away from the man who had flanked him. He rolled his friend over and growled as he found what he was looking for.

How could any of them have missed this? All at once he was furious, at himself, at Aramis, at all of them.

His hands fisted in Aramis's coat. The shallow sword cut ran from the lower portion of his shoulder blade on one side to an inch or two below the shoulder blade on the other, perfectly positioned so that it must have broken open at each bend or twist. The exertion of the horse had torn it anew so that fresh blood ran into his coat in a wide slashing stain.

Why didn't he stop to tend it or insist that one of them do so? His friend should have known the danger of it! But a small part of him whispered that his friend might have done so if Porthos had been there at his side this morning instead of off raiding a bandit camp of its wine.

There was the sound of more hoof beats and Porthos glanced up to see d'Artagnan and Athos riding to join them.

Athos slid off his horse before it stopped, landing with his weight on one leg and favoring his bad knee as he limped forward.

D'Artagnan was quick on his heels.

"What happened?" Athos asked, voice urgent. Dry mud coated him head to toe but there was steel in his eyes. His sharp gaze ran over them both, assessing.

"He fell of his horse. Before that I coulda sworn he was goin' to shoot me." Porthos brushed the back of his hand across one cheek – not liking the memory of it.

The older man's brow lifted on surprise. Behind him, d'Artagnan swore as he caught sight of the wound. The younger man twisted away as if to escape the situation, a hand tangling in his hair. Then he turned back and reengaged. He gestured to the wound in Aramis's back, "He was wounded, and I knew it. I was so tired last night I let him lull me into sleep with the promise that he would tend to it. My mind was so foggy. I should have remembered he needed my help!" His voice was rising – anger placed squarely on his own chest making his voice tight. He slammed the back of his fist against the nearest tree.

Athos rounded on him and planted a hand on his chest. He leaned in close, "Don't blame yourself entirely. Aramis is fully capable of being a stubborn fool!"

Porthos shifted, the statement felt unfair given the man's inability to come to his own defense.

Athos crouched on Aramis's other side, one finger lifting the torn edges of his jacket to reveal the cut beneath. "Porthos," the man's anger landed on him, raking him once over and finding him whole and hale, "You'll have to carry him across your back. He'll do better than on a horse. The camp can't be far."

"It's not."

There were questions behind their leader's eyes but Porthos knew they would come at a different time.

"D'Artagnan, get the horses."

D'Artagnan glanced once more to Aramis and swallowed with a nod.

"Come, let's get him up. If you tire, we'll carry him between us."

Porthos wouldn't tire. He promised himself that.

They got Aramis up and over Porthos's shoulder. It wasn't dignified, but it would get them into camp faster than struggling Aramis's limp weight on and off a horse.

Athos moved ahead to check the tents until he came across the only one Porthos himself hadn't looked through. The folding desk and chair in the center and the raised cot along one wall made this clearly the home of the bandit leader. Athos beckoned to the cot and Porthos gently lowered Aramis down, a hand at the base of his neck to keep him from flopping backwards and further stressing the wound. Athos and Porthos worked together to strip him of his jacket and then Athos helped him shift Aramis so that he was settled on his chest across the cot. Outside they could hear d'Artagnan bustling around the camp, doing what he could to predict their needs.

Porthos shared a glance with Athos. No doubt the boy was struggling with misplaced guilt, otherwise he would have been in here and underfoot until someone purposefully set him to a task.

"You doing the stitches or shall I?" Porthos asked gruffly. Neither of them were skilled at the task.

"I'll get the water ready."

"So me then?"

Athos glared at their pale friend, "I am angry enough that I would just as likely tear it worse."

Porthos swallowed, "There's wine in a sack tied to my saddle."

"For you or him or me?"

"We'll have to share."

Athos drew a heavy sigh. "I shouldn't have asked." He turned away to execute a limping retreat.

Porthos watched him go and then glanced down at his unconscious friend. He could hear Aramis complaining about his poor stitching already. He patted his friend on the shoulder, "Don't worry 'Mis, won't be that bad. I've had more practice since last time."

He set a hand on his friend's forehead, worried at the low heat that radiated off his skin.