Hey hey hey! Look at me, still alive and kickin' and hey look! Another Whumptober fic! At this rate, maybe I'll get them all done by THIS october. But seriously, I've had major writers block and I think I'm finally through it so I'm excited. Enjoy!

Prompt: Thrown against something

Sometimes, d'Artagnan envied Porthos his size. The man was built like a bull, strong and thick. No one could ever easily throw Porthos down or push him aside. He was immovable when he put his mind to it. The same could not be said for d'Artagnan, who, while respectfully tall, was annoyingly trim.

Aramis, of course, was no better off. Only a bit broader in shoulder than d'Artagnan, the sniper was lithe – built for speed, not brute force. They were both strong in their own right, of course, years of consistent training had made it so.

But even so, d'Artagnan had never beaten Porthos in hand-to-hand. And he knew that though he had come closer than anyone, Aramis hadn't either.

Robert LaSalle, the man they had been tasked with taking into custody, resembled their comrade in build far more than he resembled them and somewhere along his shady past he'd seemingly been taught to fight.

Now, they frustratingly found themselves being tossed around as if they weighed nothing.

"We should have brought Porthos," Aramis growled out as he clung to their opponents back like a limpet, combat boots crossed at the gigantic man's stomach and arms around his neck in the hopes of anchoring himself. He'd only just achieved this position and was working to get his arms into place to cut off LaSalle's airway.

D'Artagnan pushed away from the wall he'd just gotten shoved into and huffed.

"Strangely, I was just thinking the same thing," he replied lightly, eyeing LaSalle warily as he pulled at Aramis' arms, trying to dislodge him. The marksman held firm.

LaSalle growled and threw himself backward, slamming Aramis' back hard against the wall, sending a spiderweb of cracks up the drywall. D'Artagnan winched in sympathy as Aramis grit his teeth, jaw clenching, but his hold didn't waver.

"Remind me why we had to bring him in alive again?" Aramis ground out, rolling his eyes heavenward when the man drew only to slam back again. This time a chunk of the drywall crumbled away. "Dios mio," Aramis gasped. "Do something!"

"What?" d'Artagnan asked. He quickstepped to put himself between LaSalle and the door when he angled that direction. "The stun gun didn't work!"

"I don't know!" the man slammed Aramis back again and d'Artagnan saw the sniper nearly lose his hold. "Anything!"

D'Artagnan snatched up a broken leg from a chair that had already been smashed during the brawl. He swung it at the brute's knee, but succeeded only in drawing out a raging yell. His eyes widened when the man's hands found a hold in the shoulder strap of d'Artagnan's TAC vest.

With a bellow, the brute swung d'Artagnan around and slammed him head first into the wall.

His vision sparked white and then he lost a few moments to darkness. The next thing he was aware of was the floor beneath his cheek.

He blinked sluggishly and tried to pull his thoughts into line.

He heard a familiar string of Spanish cursing and hauled his head off the ground, pushing his arms under him so he could locate the owner of that voice.

A bit of clarity returned as he watched their giant adversary hook a hand around the shoulder strap of Aramis' tack vest this time. With a bellow, he yanked Aramis bodily over his shoulder and slammed him back first onto the coffee table. The wood shattered beneath the sudden assault, leaving Aramis at the center of the wreckage.

D'Artagnan struggled to his feet, determined to help. He fell back against the wall immediately, shaking his head when his vision swam drunkenly. It steadied only a moment later in time to see LaSalle haul Aramis up and throw him towards the small kitchen. Aramis' back hit the small island counter hard and then tumbled over it, landing in a heap on the tile.

"Diablo?" d'Artagnan called out worriedly when the sniper didn't immediately move. But a few breath stealing moments later he was relieved to see Aramis slowly drawing his arms in from their sprawled state. D'Artagnan's attention was drawn back to their opponent when the man hauled him up by his TAC vest, pressing him effortlessly against the wall and leaving his feet dangling.

"Shit!" he gasped out, swallowing down a wave of nausea as his head swam.

He suddenly remembered a close combat training session during his first month with the Musketeers, only days after being assigned to Alpha Team. Aramis and Porthos had been sparring with each other and d'Artagnan had never seen more dirty, underhanded moves exchanged in a training session in all his time within the military. He'd been roped into joining in and after Aramis had put him on his back with laughable ease, d'Artagnan had voiced a complaint about the sniper's dirty methods. It had been Porthos who explained it.

"When the difference between living and dying is what's proper? You do whatever it takes. It's not always just your life on the line out there."

D'Artagnan had seen that mindset lived out in a hundred different ways over the months since then. Porthos and Aramis both had proven more than willing to 'get their hands dirty' if it meant protecting one of their own – even more so each other. Even Athos had resorted to such methods when the situation was dire.

D'Artagnan figured he was in no position to question the obvious success of such methods now.

He kicked his leg forward as hard as he could, catching the giant between the legs.

LaSalle shouted, dropping d'Artagnan, doubling over and stumbling back. D'Artagnan was still trying to get his feet back under him when a blur of movement in his peripheral caught his eye.

He turned his head in time to see Aramis bring a frying pan down hard on the brute's head.

Mercifully, LaSalle dropped like a brick, unconscious at last.

Aramis dropped the now dented frying pan with a clang and collapsed against the wall next to d'Artagnan, sliding down it until they were sitting shoulder to shoulder.

"Your head?" Aramis asked, breathing oddly shallow.

"Still attached…I think."

The sniper, and unofficial field medic, turned to look at him, eyes narrowing. He drew himself away from the wall and turned to face d'Artagnan fully, taking his head between his hands and looking him in the eyes.

"You blacked out. Are you nauseated?"

"Only when I move my head…or eyes."

Aramis hummed in concern.

"Your pupils would suggest a concussion. Infirmary for you, mon ami."

Aramis sat back heavily, a grimace fleeting across his face almost too quickly for d'Artagnan to catch it in his befuddled state.

"And you?" d'Artagnan asked knowingly.

"Me? I'm fine," Aramis replied.

D'Artagnan snorted, dropping his head back against the wall wearily.

"Liar."

Aramis huffed a chuckle.

"You offend me." He to put a hand to his chest as if wounded but ended up pulling at the collar of his TAC vest as if it was too tight.

"Ribs?" d'Artagnan guessed.

"I have them, yes. Just as you do."

"Aramis," he scolded impatiently.

"That tone only works from Athos."

"Aramis," he tried more gently.

"And that tone, only from Porthos."

"Damnit, Aramis!"

Now the sniper chuckled lightly.

"I believe you just channeled Treville. Try it a bit more whiney, that suits you better."

"I'm not whiney!"

"Shrill, then."

d'Artagnan threw his hands up and let it go. He might have known he would never get a straight answer out of the marksman. Even the others struggled to get Aramis to own up to injuries and he was far less experienced than Porthos and Athos at dealing with the sniper's stubbornness.

"What should we do about him?" d'Artagnan asked, drawing his head away from the wall to look at the beast of a man still laying in a heap on the floor.

"We were tasked with bringing him in," Aramis reminded.

"Do you want to carry him down the stairs? I certainly don't. I don't even want to take myself down the stairs."

"Hmm…good point. Call the others then. They can do the heavy lifting."

D'Artagnan found a cell phone suddenly tossed into his lap. He stared at it for a moment and then picked it up. He was used to being relegated to the menial tasks whenever possible. More to the point, however, he suspected Aramis didn't want Porthos or Athos hearing his denied injury through his voice – they both had an uncanny sense for such things. D'Artagnan kept the call short and less than a minute later, help was on the way.

He tossed the phone back into Aramis' lap and rested his head back, letting his eyes close.

He hesitated a moment and then spoke again.

"Are your ribs broken?" he asked quietly, hating how young he sounded, how guilty and vulnerable. He had been Aramis' back up after all, and he'd failed spectacularly.

For a moment there was only silence.

"Yes."

At first d'Artagnan thought he'd imagined the reply. But then his sluggish brain caught up and he rolled his head against the wall, opening his eyes to look at Aramis in surprise. But the sniper had his head resting back too, eyes closed and jaw tense.

"Don't look at me like that," Aramis grumbled without opening his eyes.

"You answered me."

"Don't let it go to your head. You sounded too pathetic for me to resist."

"I know you're trying to insult me, but you still answered me."

"Kicked Puppy Tone – that's what I'll call it. Fitting, if you ask me."

d'Artagnan rolled his head back to neutral and grinned.

End! That was the modernAU obviously what with the cell phone involved. Hopefully more soon! I really do want to get these done BEFORE October hahaha