Athos is too old for this
working with the amazing Wild Force Ranger has inspired me to return to some of my musketeers wips, so here I am.
I know the last chapter I posted was "explosion," and this is also kind of about an explosion, but...this is the one that was closest to being done, and I was Feelin' It.
obligatory tag to "sleight of hand"
. . .
It isn't the most heroic homecoming, their return to the garrison following the explosions at the Louvre and the chase through the tunnels, but given that they had all come back alive despite some fairly staggering odds, Athos is willing to consider it a success.
Then the battle rush fades, and various aches and pains finally make themselves known. || If he had to guess, he'd say they're likely all suffering from similar ailments: bruises, burns, cuts, scrapes, and pounding headaches. The locations and intensity of the injuries may vary – Porthos had taken more of the blast than Athos had; Aramis had been thrown onto a stone staircase; and d'Artagnan had already been knocked unconscious once before the explosion occurred – but they're all upright, all mobile, and all communicative enough to answer Aramis' perfunctory questions, so it truly could be worse.
The next morning, it is.
It takes twice as long as usual for Athos to scrape himself up out of bed, and frankly, he'd rather be hungover. It's not better, necessarily, but it's more manageable. Hungover, he has enough in the way of muscle memory to shamble his way through his morning routine that he doesn't really need to think about anything until he's on his way to the garrison. Concussed, however, he finds himself facing an entirely different gauntlet of challenges, not least of which is that his muscle memory is apparently beyond reach, and everything requires thinking.
Sitting up requires thinking.
Standing up requires thinking and balance.
Getting dressed requires thinking, balance, and eyes that can focus in the seeming glare of what he rationally knows is a pale, watery morning light.
The headache is about the same as a hangover, but it can't be dulled with drink, and even he knows how unwise it would be to try.
By the time he's halfway to the garrison, he's seriously considering turning around and going home, but the moment passes and then he's closer to the garrison than he is to his bed so he may as well keep going. Every sound seems to scrape against his ears, every color seems to throb, and every bit of motion caught in his peripheral vision makes him wince. His eyes apparently haven't realised yet that moving is a terrible idea.
This isn't his first concussion, but he hopes to God it's his last: he's getting far too old for this.
He says as much, when he arrives at the garrison and sinks into a seat across from Porthos at the table in the yard.
Porthos, with his head on the table, grumbles something that even Athos' over-sensitive ears can't make out.
"Have you seen the others yet?" Athos asks, and gets a grunted, "No," in answer. They sit in companionable if miserable silence, Athos attempting to find a balance between relaxing every muscle in his face and not appearing painfully unintelligent. He reaches no real conclusion, save that Porthos probably has the right of it, and only the reluctance to move his head and neck keeps him from following his example.
Aramis arrives perhaps ten minutes later, walking with a sort of wincing tenderness that lets Athos know more or less exactly which parts of him took the brunt of impact with the stairs.
"Both still alive, then?" he observes as he sits gingerly beside Athos.
"I think so," Athos answers. "Porthos is breathing, at least."
"An admirable start," Aramis agrees. "And you're upright and using words, so I'll take that as a good sign."
"Glad to know you think so highly of us," Porthos says, voice muffled by the soft wood of the table and his own sturdy arms. Aramis doesn't offer a rejoinder, which tells Athos quite a bit.
The miserable-companionable silence returns and holds court for several more minutes, and then Athos' carefully unfocussed eyes pick up movement by the garrison's entrance. D'Artagnan trudges in, arms crossed in front of his chest against the cold and face as lifeless as Athos' feels.
"Ah, there you are," Aramis says with almost all of his usual good cheer as he arrives at the table. "How's the head?"
D'Artagnan grunts and climbs stiffly onto the bench next to Porthos, then puts his elbows on the table and presses his hands against his eyes. "I can't read."
Athos blinks. It's an odd time for a confession like that, but it's hardly an insurmountable challenge. Before he can say anything to that effect, though, d'Artagnan clarifies.
"I tried to write a note to M. Bonacieux this morning before coming here and the words kept coming out wrong. I don't know why, but they were just...wrong."
"That can be a result of head injuries," Aramis finally says after a few long moments of silence. "It likely isn't permanent, but it is a sign that you shouldn't be training."
"Thank God," d'Artagnan sighs. "I think if I tried to fight anyone right now I'd drop dead on the spot."
"I think Treville would prefer that we avoid that," Athos puts in. "All of us."
"D'you think he'll give us leave," Porthos asks the table, "or will he make us push through to teach us some kind of lesson?"
"What lesson would that be?" Aramis asks pointedly. "'Let the King be murdered and robbed next time'?"
"I think it would be more along the lines of 'avoid needlessly convoluted schemes,'" Athos points out.
"Or 'don't trust d'Artagnan,'" d'Artagnan offers sullenly, and Porthos raises a hand to pat d'Artagnan's shoulder without lifting his head. He misses and sort of thwaps his upper arm instead, but Athos is willing to chalk that up to the fact that his eyes are still closed.
"Fair," Aramis admits, "but are we really going to take any of those lessons to heart?"
At that, Porthos does finally look up. He looks pale, but determined. "Hell no," he says. "I like this kid. We're keeping him."
D'Artagnan lifts his head from his hands. "And I like convoluted schemes," he admits, surprising no one.
"And Treville certainly knows that we won't let any harm come to the royal family," Athos agrees.
The four of them share a moment of bleary but resolved eye contact, then almost in perfect unison Porthos and d'Artagnan drop their heads again. "So, you think we'll get leave?" Porthos asks.
Aramis sighs, and carefully extricates himself from the bench. "I'll go ask him."
There's a muted chorus of thanks from the group, and he heads off stiffly up the stairs.
As he goes, Athos gives in to the temptation and gently, slowly leans over and puts his head on the table. It lands with a soft thud, and the relief of the solidity and support pulls a sigh from him before he can stop it.
"I think we live here now," Porthos mumbles. "I think this table is our home."
"Hmm. Bit cold, though."
"If God is good, Treville will give us some blankets," Athos says, and they wait together for Aramis to return with news of their deliverance.
Treville doesn't give them blankets, but he does give them two weeks of leave and the option to spend the rest of the day in an empty room at the garrison, so maybe God is good, after all.
. . .
not to be all cooking-blog-recipe-intro but life just keeps happening, ya know? one day you're like "i'm gonna start working on this again" and then the next day it's nine months later, you've been accepted to grad school, gotten (and been laid off from) two new jobs, and the whole world is going to shit. it happens. time is fake. anyway.
as always, thanks for reading, and please feel free to leave whatever feedback you'd like to!