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The road to recovery continues, but these things do not always go according to plan; three steps forward, two steps back.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Somehow, they soon all seemed to have a key to his apartment. Athos wasn't quite sure how that had happened; although Aramis and Porthos had accommodation of their own, it was to Athos's apartment they all seemed to gravitate.

When his brothers saw how firm his demons held him, they joined forces and supported him; sat with him; talked to him; fed him, and basically just loved him.

So they were there when he went into occasional meltdown.

The first time was when Porthos opened a can of coke in the kitchen and it sprayed in Athos's face. The shock and the feel of it on his skin creating a flashback that left Athos in a heap on the floor, his hands covering his face. Porthos had pulled him up and sat him on a kitchen stool, going around behind him and putting his arms around him to keep him from sliding off. Aramis brought a towel and gently dried his face.

Later, the three of them sat on the sofa listening to the sublime arias of Puccini, the lights low, their voices soft, until enough time passed for him to right himself. As the night wore on, and more wine was drunk, Athos finally began to unburden himself to Porthos andAramis, and they discovered at least one of the burdens of guilt he carried with him.

"Thomas was killed by a woman. He went to her assistance. She had a baby in her arms. Only, once he'd got close, the "baby" was an AK-47, and she shot him and left him there to die. The medics didn't get there in time, and he died in the field ambulance. Apparently, the surgeon did a wonderful job and wouldn't give up, but they had to physically pull him off in the end. That's a comfort in a strange way; that someone would try that hard for him..." his voice trailed off.

"I know this story," said Porthos cautiously, breaking the ensuing silence.

"What do you mean?" Athos asked, looking up at him, uncomprehending.

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a look.

Aramis stood and walked quietly over to the piano.

Porthos leaned forward and put a calming hand on Athos's arm.

"The surgeon was Aramis. He told me in the hospital. That's why he put such a lot of time into getting you well."

Porthos looked over at Aramis before he continued...

"He felt he had let Thomas down, and he didn't want another de la Fere to die on his watch."

Athos looked at Aramis.

Aramis was looking away, but then he turned his head to look at him, and Athos saw that it was true.

Athos just stared at him, his eyes too big, and his heart too full.

oOo

Gradually, Athos was having more good days than bad. He was now walking better and no longer reliant on his stick, which had happily been confined to the back of the guest room wardrobe.

London had a lot of distractions, and one evening, one such attraction was a comedy club in Covent Garden. With a surprising minimum amount of effort, Porthos had persuaded Athos that they should give it a try, and the two of them left Aramis, who was busy but promised to join then later, and set off. The comedian had the dry, sardonic humour that Athos liked; as the night wore on, Porthos thought how good it felt to hear him laugh; it had been a long time and he had begun to wonder if he had forgotten how to.

They were laughing afterwards as they walked down the streets on their way to a bar to meet up with Aramis.

Rounding a corner, Porthos was suddenly aware that Athos was no longer beside him, and that he had been talking to himself. He turned around; Athos was standing stock still, looking down at the pavement.

"What?" Porthos said, still laughing.

The laughter died on his lips as Athos raised his head to look at him, and Porthos saw the look in his eyes.

"Athos?" he whispered, taking a step toward him.

Athos put both hands to his mouth as if he couldn't breathe, and slowly went into a crouch.

Porthos looked around, seeing nothing that could have caused this reaction. Athos was not looking at anything, just pressing his hands over his mouth and nose.

He's not breathin'

"Athos," he said, worried now. "What's wrong?" He reached out and took hold of his shoulders and hauled him up.

"That smell ..." Athos groaned, standing limp now in Porthos's firm grip.

Porthos looked around, and in that instant, he realised.

They were standing next to an Asian restaurant and the air was heavy with the sweet pungent aroma of Asian food.

Athos had been transported in a moment back to Musa Qala, once more watching a woman making a meal for a family that would never eat it; a family who would never see her alive again. Athos had spoken of her in the hospital. But the aroma of food similar to that which she had been cooking on that fateful day had made this memory much more vivid than any words could. An aroma now locked into his unconscious mind, free to do its worst.

Porthos wrapped his arms around his friend, and breathed with him, until he quietened.

When he let go, he took his friend's face in his hands and made him make eye contact.

"It's just a panic attack," his voice fierce, yet full of love.

When Athos just stared at him, Porthos simply said,

"That was then, this is now," and pulled him along, as if nothing had happened. Gradually, they fell into step, and made it to the pub.

The tension finally eased; they saw Aramis in the corner, and spent the rest of the evening regaling him with a colourful account of the jokes they had heard.

But Porthos's heart ached.

When would Athos get some peace.

oOo

Moments like that those though helped Athos to realise he was not alone. He loved both these men. He may have lost one brother, but he had found two more really remarkable ones. Porthos, who had never had a family of his own, felt the same way. Aramis? well, he loved everyone; although he devoted his time to watching and caring for his two brothers.

Athos did not know what he had done to deserve such affection. He had never been shown such care and understanding. His life had always been about duty and order. When he got too morose, and started to fold in on himself, they bundled him onto the Underground and took a short tube ride to their favourite pub, "The Wren," which stood in the shadow of St. Paul's Cathedral. They let him sit in a corner and stew in his own juice before bringing him home and pouring him into bed.

His brothers knew that, although he was not tactile, and found their outward affection somewhat difficult, standing awkwardly in one of Porthos's bear hugs, that he cared deeply about people. He was happy to be aloof, he could slip a mask on as easily as his coat, but underneath that mask, when it slipped, his heart could swell like any other with love, and hope and happiness.

With the support of his friends, Athos retrieved his PhD paperwork and committed himself to finishing his doctorate. It would not be easy, but it would be distracting. And so he set to work.

oOo

It was not all plain sailing as time wore on – there were good days and bad. Many days when he did not drink and some days when he needed to drink himself into oblivion. Gradually, his demons were retreating in the face of unremitting brotherhood.

But one was persistent; persuing him, and unnerving him.

One evening, Porthos let himself into the apartment, his arms full of groceries. Kicking off his shoes, he adjusted the bags and pushed his hip against the kitchen door. The door swung open to a dark kitchen, which was unusual. Porthos put the bags on the floor and felt for the light switch, flooding the kitchen with light. Athos was sitting on the floor, his back to the fridge, knees drawn up to his chest. His hair was still damp from the shower. He had obviously been preparing vegetables, as the evidence was now strewn across the floor. But now, he was hunched over, his forehead on his drawn up knees, apparently shutting out the world.

Porthos looked quickly around, before moving across the floor and crouching down in front of his friend.

"You seen 'er again? The woman in the cloak?" he asked quietly, understanding instantly.

Athos nodded.

"I just looked up, and she was standing over there," he waved his arm toward the window.

"I'm going mad, Porthos," Athos said, raising his head, his eyes haunted.

"Come on," Porthos answered, pulling him up.

"You have a lie down – Aramis will be here soon."

Later, when Aramis quietly opened the bedroom door, he found Athos sitting back on the bed, leaning against the headboard, staring at the wall, the cup of tea Porthos had brought him cold in his hands. Aramis sat down next to him, legs stretched out, and they sat in silence for a few minutes, before Aramis prised the cup from his friend's hand, and set it down on the bedside table.

"She's haunting me," Athos muttered, bereft.

"I keep thinking she is watching me, keep thinking I catch sight of her out of the corner of my eye. And now, she's here."

"I think," said Aramis with a sigh, "that your unconscious mind is trying to tell you something,"

"Do you still have Treville's card?" he added.

"In my desk." Athos replied.

Aramis got off the bed, and headed purposefully back into the lounge.

To be continued ...