Flea

She did not know how many hours she spent dressing d'Artagnan's wounds. When she finished, daylight was slipping in through the dirty windows. She glanced around the room at the other wounded men.

One musketeer, whose name she did not know, was holding a limp Narenne tightly in his arms. The man must have died, and she had not noticed. She felt guilty. She had promised Aramis she would keep the vigil, and she had not even realized that someone had died...

Her tired eyes glanced towards Etienne. The musketeer was busy stitching the long slash on his side.

"It would be easier to ask someone for help," she said casually as she approached him.
"Whom should I ask? Those dead-or wounded-men?"
She glanced towards the musketeer grieving Narenne.
"He needs time," said Etienne softly.
"I'll stitch you up," she replied, her tone firm.
He agreed.

She finished, then withdrew to her place near Porthos.
She gently touched his face. His skin was clammy and cold. It scared her, but she did not want to wake Aramis. The medic really not look much better than his wounded brother.

She checked on Athos and cursed under her breath. The musketeer was burning up. She dipped a cloth in a bowl of cold water and placed it gently on his forehead.

The musketeers on guard duty changed, and she saw the worry on their faces as they stared at their fallen comrades.

"Madam?" Jansard came over to her with some bread and cheese. She was not hungry, but accepted the food with a small nod. She had learnt from experience that when food was available, it should be eaten, regardless of the status of her appetite.

A growl. She extended a hand to gently touch Porthos' face, and froze. The sound he made had been barely audible to her, but not to Aramis. The musketeer stirred, and reflexively aimed his pistol towards the door. Only then he did he open his eyes. It would have been funny if the situation had not been so dire.

Aramis put down the weapon.
"Porthos?" he asked softly, gently touching his friend's cheek. The big man leaned into his touch.
"Mis?" he mumbled.
"Yes, I am here. Can you open your eyes for me?"

Flea observed Aramis with awe. It seemed as if Aramis' only focus was his wounded brother. There was worry in his eyes, and a gentleness that that was born of deep love.

"How do you feel?" Aramis asked softly.

"Bad… sick."

Somehow, Aramis managed to get a bucket in place just in time. He held Porthos securely while he vomited. Flea did not hear the words he whispered, but she saw the fear in his face. Then the medic relaxed slightly.
"No blood," he said with relief.

"Mis…"
The ordeal had left Porthos nearly breathless.
"Rest… you'll be fine."
"Don't lie to me..."

Flea stared at Aramis, holding her breath as she waited for his answer. Would she lose Porthos? Would she have to return to Paris without him? She should not be so scared. However, she could not imagine her world without the security of knowing that Porthos was alive. Somewhere. Somewhere among the living.

"You have a chance," the medic replied, gently stroking Porthos' hair.
"Don't agree… I… don't feel well…"
"I know. I will prepare something for the pain."
"Mis… I need you to promise me that you will go on living if I die."
"Without you, I would have no reason to live."
Aramis' broken voice would shatter the hardest heart.
Porthos closed his eyes. Flea thought he had fallen asleep, but suddenly she heard his voice.
"If I live, will you, Mis?" he asked. Somehow, there was more strength in his tone...and Flea could swear she saw a mischievous glint in his dull eyes.

"Yes," replied the medic quickly. Too quickly, thought Flea. But due to the shape he was in, there was no way that Porthos would realize that.
She was wrong.
"Mis, promise me!" demanded the wounded musketeer.
Aramis looked directly into his brother's eyes.
"I promise," he whispered.

Porthos visibly relaxed.
"Good," he murmured, and fell asleep.

She could have been a part of the life of this extraordinary man. She could almost taste the affection and care that he offered so freely to his brothers… and knew that she could have had such a bond to this man. However, she had rejected it. And for the first time in her life, she was not sure if her decision had been the right one.

Aramis gently untangled himself from his brother in order to check on Athos. He cursed when he realized how hot his leader was. He checked the wound, and was dismayed to see that it already showed signs of infection. He treated it with a vast amount of alcohol. Athos tried to withdraw from the pain, and mumbled something, his words incoherent.

Aramis did his best to soothe him. "You're safe. Hush… you're safe. We're safe."

It worked-for a few minutes.
Athos started to toss, and Aramis tried to hold him down. He leaned towards him, whispering soft, reassuring words. It gave the wounded man some temporary relief, but soon he was once again caught up in his feverish nightmare.

Thank you for reading and reviewing.

Special thanks to Riversidewren.

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