Title: A Restlessness in Common
Author: JenF
Chapters: 26 of 28
Disclaimer: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.
Aramis leans heavily on Porthos as they slowly put the courtyard behind them. His own words are ringing in his ears: we will not bring an army upon you. He stifles a laugh at the innocence of those words, the misguided reassurance he released onto Descarte's subconscious. It was almost too easy to assure the fool that he would be safe. Regardless of the outcome of the duel between Athos and their adversary, Descarte will not be alive by nightfall. Of that, Aramis has no doubt.
He feels Porthos tighten his hold around his waist and realises he's still laughing. No wonder his dearest friend looks worried. But now he's started, he doesn't seem able to stop and he lifts a hand to Porthos' chest, meaning to take strength and comfort from the contact that he has missed so much.
"Aramis," Porthos whispers and Aramis stops laughing. His companion's voice is wrong. Aramis blinks and shakes his head as much as he dares. The pair come to a standstill and Aramis raises his head, meeting Porthos' eye. He sees pain in the face he knows and loves and ever so slowly he takes his hand away from its resting place.
"Porthos," he starts, dropping his eyes to his hand, "when were you going to tell me?"
The question hangs in the air for an uncomfortably long period of time. Aramis stares at his hand, stained with blood that he knows isn't his. He's spilled enough over the last few days to know exactly where to expect it and Porthos' chest isn't on his list.
"It's not too bad," Porthos eventually replies and gently takes hold of Aramis' wrist, pulling his hand out of his line of vision. "You got your own problems to worry about," and he tilts the marksman's face up so he can study it closely.
Aramis shakes his head free of his hold, instantly regretting it when the world spins, trees becoming grass, grass becoming rocks and rocks becoming clouds. He can't stop the accompanying stumble and Porthos' sudden firm grip on his biceps is the only thing holding him upright.
He allows himself to be lowered to the ground, relishing the solidity of both the earth beneath him and the hands holding him. His head feels as though it's detaching from the rest of his body and his eyelids slip closed of their own volition. In the ensuing darkness he can hear every beat of his heart thumping steadily and for that he gives thanks – it means he still has life in him.
Porthos' hand on his face brings him back to reality. He opens his eyes and offers up a small, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry," he starts.
"Aramis," Porthos interrupts, holding a hand up to his face. "How long have you been coughing up blood?"
Aramis frowns. He's sure he's had this conversation already. Why can't Porthos remember that? He thinks back to when he first noticed, remembers being told he wasn't dying, remembers the gentleness with which his pain and fears were dealt. Why can't Porthos remember any of that?
"Aramis…Aramis."
"A while," Aramis tells his friend, "but you already know that."
Porthos shakes his head and Aramis feels a leaden ball of foreboding settle in his stomach.
"Yes," he insists, "you do. You told me I wasn't dying. You told me I was going to be alright. You told me…"
"Stop," Porthos commands, his voice unreasonably harsh and loud, and Aramis realises he's on the verge of a panic attack. "Just…stop," Porthos repeats, words tinged with a sadness Aramis doesn't want to hear. So he does. He stops and falls still.
They sit in silence for some time. Aramis doesn't know how long they sit there – he lost count of time at least three days ago, maybe more. He looks at the ground, wondering why Porthos is so upset with him. Every so often he casts a glance at his friend, tries to catch his eye, but Porthos is focused on something in the distance and Aramis simply hasn't got it in him anymore to turn and look behind him. He's dimly aware they should be doing something about Athos and d'Artagnan but the ground is suddenly so inviting, despite the sharp stones digging into his backside and hands where they lie at his side.
Eventually he lets his eyes drift closed just as Porthos sighs deeply.
"You didn't have that conversation with me," the musketeer tells him. "You must have been talking to Athos. He was the one looking after you." He hesitates. "I wasn't there for you, Aramis. I wasn't there and I should have been. I'm sorry."
"Not your fault," Aramis mutters, grimacing at the energy even those few words have taken from him. "But we can be there for d'Artagnan and Athos. We have to help them."
Porthos snorts. "Doubt Athos needs much help. He's the only one of us who's not bleeding from somewhere."
The words filter through the fog of Aramis' mind. What does Porthos mean the only one of us? His mind flies back to his blood stained hand – the hand that had rested on Porthos' chest.
"Porthos? Where are you hurt?" he asks, the medic in him taking over effortlessly. Maybe, he muses, in some twisted way this is what he needs, to tend to the wounded, forget about his own hurt and failings.
"Bullet grazed my ribs," the other man responds. "It stopped bleeding but I think I must have pulled it open again. It's fine now though, Aramis, don't worry about it. I've had worse."
"You cleaned it?"
Porthos laughs. "What with?"
"Did you at least bind it?"
Porthos simply raises an eyebrow at his friend and Aramis nods but makes a note to check Porthos out properly as soon as he can. He opens his mouth to make his intentions clear but as he does so, Porthos raises his hand, silently demanding silence, eyes fixed at something in the distance.
"Shh," he whispers, as though Aramis needs any further instruction. Aramis and Porthos have been together for so long such vocalisations are not required; they read each other like books. So Aramis merely watches his friend, wondering what he has seen that has caused this reaction from his normally steadfast companion.
Porthos slowly rises to his feet and holds a hand out to Aramis, pulling him upright. "We need to go," he tells him, not releasing his hold until Aramis pulls his arm slightly, indicating his returning strength and ability to stand on his own two feet.
He turns slowly, ignoring the bubbling rising up in his chest, the bubbling he thought was long gone but seems to be making a reappearance just in time to negate his words of reassurance to Porthos.
By the time he has made a half turn to face whatever Porthos was so focused on, his friend has stepped forward so they are side by side.
And now Aramis can make out a figure in the near distance – nearer than he would prefer if he were honest. The figure is clearly a man and as Aramis squints to make out details, he tries to decide if this is going to turn out well for them or not. As the man moves forward, Aramis can make out the shape of a pistol at the end of an outstretched arm and decides this may not be the relief that he and Porthos so badly need right now.