"Athos! Athos!" D'Artagnan exclaimed, laughing and tugging on his sleeve, "come quick! I have to show you something!"
Led along by the hand, Athos grinned at the sight of his young companion so carefree, watching as d'Artagnan pranced through the tall grass like a small child, boyhood sitting comfortably on his face. Forced to run with the speed of d'Artagnan's feet, Athos was pulled along towards a patch of trees in the middle of his manor's field, another astonished smile lighting his lips.
"D'Artagnan," he whispered, but the younger man wasn't listening to him as he pulled Athos into the glade, "I know this place…"
D'Artagnan laughed as the trees finally broke around them to reveal the pristine lake that Athos so remembered, the beautiful flowers and the lily pads floating delicately along the surface; fireflies flittered through the area, and the sun left patches of bright light on the vibrant swaying grass from where it broke through the leaves of the willows.
Clad in only their shirts and trousers, d'Artagnan exclaimed, "come on, Athos! We should swim!" And, without further ado, threw himself into the cool water, beaming when he surfaced.
Athos chuckled. "You look like a drowned rat!" He claimed, his voice teasing but playful as he followed d'Artagnan's lead and jumped into the water, getting d'Artagnan more soaked.
"Athos," d'Artagnan said, sounding distantly suddenly, "Athos…"
Athos's grin faded. "What is it, d'Artagnan? What's the matter?"
"Athos...Athos…" he sounded further now, and perhaps a little more frantic, and Athos called out for him, reaching for him. There was a pressure on his shoulders and then-
"Athos. Wake up, for God's sake; wake up!"
Opening his eyes, he was blinded with the sudden light of the sun, and he threw his hands up over his face. Aramis's amused and relieved voice came to him again. "Athos, thank the Lord. It's morning, my friend; the sun is shining. D'Artagnan has made it through the night."
Before he could check it a grin split across his lips, and he jumped from his seat in the rickety old chair, turning to the bed and finding d'Artagnan's soft brown doe eyes peering at him sleepily.
"'Thos?"
His hands trembled as his heart filled with gratitude towards anyone he could think of- Porthos for carrying d'Artagnan so fast, Aramis for treating him so efficiently, d'Artagnan for being as stubborn as ever against death and not giving up- Treville for putting the garrison on alert, the Musketeers who'd arrested the Count, God for giving him the third chance to do right by a brother-
"Welcome back, d'Artagnan," he whispered, laying his hand across d'Artagnan's forehead. "Sleep now. You'll be alright."
"'Thos...'M sorry…"
Athos chuckled breathlessly. "You fool," he said softly. "You damned fool."
Aramis spoke up softly, saying, "d'Artagnan?" The look on Aramis's face had d'Artagnan's smile melting almost instantly. "I...your ankle," he began, "it was a severe break, and I did all I could. But when it was broken it had begun to heal at a wrong angle, being held in the one position under you so long, bent like that. I did all I could, but..."
Athos's mouth ran dry, and he shot Aramis a look, which the pious man leveled evenly. "What are you saying?" D'Artagnan asked, and sounded far too calm.
Aramis grimaced, ducking his head and shielding his face from sight. Athos knew that Aramis's expression had crumpled from where it was hidden in his locks of long hair. "I'm sorry, d'Artagnan," he said quietly. "But you may never walk correctly again."
The next morning proved difficult, as d'Artagnan had trouble moving about on his injured ankle and was too stubborn to allow himself to be helped. It seemed that even with the threat of being unable to walk should he jar the ankle wrong just once was not enough to stop their young friend, and they were trying to keep him as still as possible.
Aramis seemed like a saint during these times. "D'Artagnan," he said patiently (for a fourth time, Athos marvelled), "until your crutches are made and fitted for your size, you cannot put pressure on that, much less move about on it. Let us help you."
Huffing and trying not to wince as he pulled on his burns, d'Artagnan grudgingly conceded, allowing Aramis to help him into a new shirt (as the other nightshirt was soaked with sweat from his fever, which had broken sometime in the early morning hours) and coughed roughly into his sleeve, doubling over and hunching over his ribs, then crying out as he pulled on the burn on his back.
Aramis was quick to steady him and straighten him, even through the coughing fit. "Alright, alright," he soothed, as d'Artagnan's hands clutched at his shirt, panic glazed eyes pleading with his friend for air, "it's alright, it will be over soon. Shh. Shh, my friend. Shh."
Gradually the coughing tapered off, and just as d'Artagnan was calming down, he surged forward and threw up over the side of the bed.
Aramis held d'Artagnan's sweat slicked hair away from his face as he retched, and wiped his friend's mouth with a rag when he finished. "At least my boots aren't new," he joked, and d'Artagnan let out a breathless, barely-a-laugh.
Athos felt something in his chest squeeze uncomfortably, and he went forward to take a place next to d'Artagnan on the bed. Exhausted eyes found his own, and before he realized what he was doing he was raking fingers through d'Artagnan's hair again.
He was asleep so fast that it had Aramis startled when he turned back from where he'd been pouring their young companion a glass of water.
"Athos, come on," d'Artagnan complained, "I don't need help with eating!"
Athos glared at him, plopping the spoon back into the stew Constance had been nice enough to fix for her lodger. "Oh really?" He said, arching an eyebrow. "Fine then. Raise your arms higher than your midsection, hm?"
D'Artagnan opened his mouth to argue, paused, then thought better of it and his mouth shut again. With a sigh he settled back against the pillows of the bed, crossing his arms and glaring at his mentor, looking for all the world like a petulant child. Athos had to consciously keep himself in check to refrain from smiling.
D'Artagnan reluctantly opened his mouth again, his hunger winning the war against pride and, satisfied, Athos picked up the spoon again.
"Athos, come on!" D'Artagnan said excitedly, grabbing his mentor's sleeve and tugging it urgently, "I have to show you something!"
Baffled but amused, Athos followed his young friend through the underbrush of trees, ducking around hedges and watching d'Artagnan run through the tall swaying grass, as if he'd lived there all his life. Boyhood sat on his face as though it meant to never leave.
D'Artagnan turned to grin at him, and before them was the pristine lake Athos so remembered, the willows sweeping to brush at the water, the flowers in bloom and beautiful, the grass the most vibrant green-
"Athos. Come on. Wake up."
"Come on, Athos!" D'Artagnan cried cheerfully, "let's go swimming!"
"Athos, I r-r-really need your h-h-help right n-now. Seriously. W-wake up."
With a smile, he was following his young friend, his mind fondly wrenched back to memories of Thomas-
It was the sharp pain in his forehead that brought him back fully, and he jumped up to find d'Artagnan looking at him with an equally annoyed and desperate expression. "Athos," he said, and Athos was concerned to find his teeth chattering, "the- w-w-window is op-p-p-pen and I c-c-couldn't close i-it-"
All but sprinting to the window he'd opened to air out the room, he bolted it shut and covered d'Artagnan with extra blankets. His young friend sighed in pleasure as the warmth slowly returned to his chilled body, and his head canted as he stared at Athos with something akin to interest in his gaze.
"It was hard to wake you. What were you dreaming about? I heard you mumbling."
"What did you wake me with?" He wondered aloud, partially to change the subject and partially out of honest curiosity.
D'Artagnan gave him a knowing look but let it be, pointing to the stray boot in the corner of the room. At Athos's shocked glare, d'Artagnan blushed and ducked his head. "It was the only thing I could reach."
And then they were both laughing.
"Hey, whelp," Porthos said, shrugging off his jacket and stomping his boots in the doorway, "sorry I haven't been around much- the King's been sending us here and there, and I hope you know I wanted to be here."
D'Artagnan gave his friend a sunny smile. "That's alright. How many hunts this week?"
Porthos snorted, throwing himself down into the chair at d'Artagnan's bedside. "Four. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was concerned for you."
D'Artagnan's lips quirked. "He's probably concerned for his own life, seeing as I'm always tumbling down mountains for him and the like."
Porthos laughed. "Aye, that you are, you foolish thing. Here, I've smuggled you a present." Perking up at his friend's words, d'Artagnan couldn't help his grin as his friend pulled out a bottle of wine from the folds of his shrugged jacket, and grabbed two goblets from the dresser which held the water. "The best kind of pain medicine there is," Porthos said as he handed d'Artagnan a glass.
He raised it in acknowledgement. "I'll drink to that," he agreed, and they chinked glasses together before drinking deeply.
They didn't speak about the threat of d'Artagnan's impairment, didn't even speak of the injuries at all. Porthos launched right into stories of his friend's other companions in the garrison and their worry, Treville's gruff concern, and the missions he'd been sent on that week as they together drained the bottle of wine.
It was near the end of his sixth cup that d'Artagnan's head drooped, his eyelids half shut in contentment and the goblet tipping from his hands. Porthos caught it, his voice never straying from the same, smooth timbre, and he watched with a small fond smile as d'Artagnan's eyes slowly slipped shut.
Then he tenderly supported d'Artagnan's upper body as he slid him down onto his back, completely against the mattress, d'Artagnan only stirring to assure himself that it was only Porthos.
Porthos stayed for a while.
Nightmares were evident, especially after the torture d'Artagnan had undergone, but most of them were silent. Tears would stream down their youngest's face as he barely whimpered in sleep, and if you weren't paying attention, you'd miss it- the terror on his face.
It was a good thing the musketeers were observant.
It was around two weeks into d'Artagnan's bed rest that Aramis had finally been given the night shift, and when it began, he wasn't exactly sure what to do. D'Artagnan had been getting plenty of sleep, but the dark purple circles around his sunken, weary eyes spoke of a different exhaustion. Different wounds.
And so when d'Artagnan began to whimper, tears gathering at the corners of his lashes, Aramis was reluctant to wake him up, instead repeating the action he'd seen Athos do a million times before. He gently slid his fingers through d'Artagnan's silky locks, murmuring, "be at peace, little brother. You are safe. You will make it."
And d'Artagnan was still.
When he'd recovered enough so that the burns were barely pink scars and the lacerations had blended into white strips of skin and he could put pressure on his foot again (safely; the relief he'd felt when d'Artagnan's ankle healed correctly could not be compared to the ecstatic look on d'Artagnan's face, and this was when Athos realized d'Artagnan had hid his worry in an attempt to be strong). Athos had pulled him (finally!) from bed and thrown him his travel cloak and jacket, saying, "put those on and meet me in the stables. Your horse is saddled."
D'Artagnan trotted after his older friend, a furrow in his brow. "Athos, where are we going?" He asked, and Athos turned to him with a smile on his face that spoke so much more than what was next said.
"Come on," he said, swinging himself up into the saddle of his own horse. "I have to show you something."
Then he tugged on d'Artagnan's sleeve to prompt him onto his horse, and pressed his mare into a gallop that d'Artagnan followed willingly.
And he didn't have any cause to be still any longer.
