he trusts Athos
. . .
He trusts Athos. He trusts Athos. It's what he tells himself, again and again: as they plan, as they rehearse, as they prepare. As he prepares.
Porthos' summons, right on time; Aramis' measured calls for reason, for calm, for peace; Milady's entreaty to d'Artagnan; Athos drunk and stumbling—
But he's not, d'Artagnan tells himself fiercely. He's not drunk, he's not shaking, it's an act, it's a tri—
A flash, a thunderous crack, and his chest erupts into bright, searing pain.
He tips dizzily for a moment, reeling back from the impact, and then his legs simply give out and he's left looking up at the sky, so much darker than it had been a moment ago. His ears are ringing with the echoes of the shot, but he hadn't been that close, surely Athos is the one whose ears should be ringing…
"D'Artagnan!" he hears, then a rough hand is tapping his cheek, pawing at his shirt. "Come on, d'Artagnan," the voice mutters, and it's Porthos, it's Porthos kneeling over him, trying to rouse him. "Come on, stay with me, stay with me." At last, he manages to pry open his eyes, and there indeed is Porthos above him. "That's good," Porthos says, still in his low, worried tone. It's an act, he realises belatedly. It's an act like all the rest of it, but the burning furrow in his side is all too real.
"You all right to keep going?" Porthos asks, taking one of his hands. D'Artagnan gives it a short, sharp squeeze followed by a longer one. "Good lad. Just a bit longer." Milady and Athos are shouting again, in the background, and Aramis with them, and others he can't name, twining together and grating harshly against the buzzing still filling his head. Then Porthos stands to join them, his voice the loudest of them all, and d'Artagnan takes that as permission to close his eyes and let himself slip away.
More realistic, if he's unconscious. Better show. More believa….
He wakes a few times, in the carriage, as he's carried to the room, as the surgeon examines and dresses the wound.
He doesn't mean to sleep, but he can't seem to stay awake. He's just so tired. So tired.
The next morning, he drags himself out of bed, delivers his lines, and sets the bait, aided by Treville's perfectly timed appearance. Then he stumbles back to the garrison and pulls together his last remaining shreds of strength to challenge Athos with all the public bravado his reputation demands. Aramis and Porthos pretend to drag him up the steps to Treville's office, but their grips are gentle and the support is a welcome relief. The pain in his side has dulled some, but not by much, and the lethargy that's been dogging him since last night is pulling at him still, leaving him leaden-limbed and short of breath.
"Are you all right?" Athos asks him softly after their business is concluded, and d'Artagnan smiles wearily.
"Fine. Just tired."
"I've heard that being shot can have that effect," Aramis interjects wryly. "Do you want me to take a look?"
D'Artagnan shakes his head, then wishes he hadn't as the room sways. Or maybe it's him. Aramis and Athos both reach out to steady him, but the spell passes quickly, and he brushes their hands away. "A physician's already seen to it, and it seems to be holding fine. It wouldn't be worth undoing the bandages to check."
"You'll have plenty of time to rest and recover once this is over with," Treville says. They all turn to look at him; to d'Artagnan's eyes, his expression is firm, but not unkind, as he surveys them. Then his gaze meets d'Artagnan's, and sharpens. "Are you fit to continue?"
"Yes, sir," he answers.
Treville nods. "Then we go ahead as planned."
The next two days pass oddly, made up of vivid moments saturated with color and sound that somehow end up blurring into a meaningless stream the moment they pass.
He pretends to shoot Athos, and the pig's blood is bright and sharp and sickly-smelling even from where he stands. He turns to Milady, and his vision takes longer to catch up with his eyes than it should, but then he's off again, plunging into another dreamlike scene.
Milady takes him to see Richelieu, and later he will have no memory of what he said to convince him, or any real credulity that it worked. He just remembers the hissing of red on black as the Cardinal's robes swirled around him, and the way the room seemed suddenly frigid as he entered it.
They expose Richelieu's treasonous attempts to the Queen, and reveal to Milady that Athos isn't nearly as dead as she'd thought, but the two events seem mingled, as though they're happening at once, rather than one after the other.
As in a dream, the oddities don't strike him as strange at the time.
He doesn't remember going back to the garrison, but he wakes up in one of the infirmary beds with Athos sitting beside him, pressing a cold cloth against his overheated skin.
"I'm sick?" he asks thickly, the words unwieldy in his dry mouth. There's a strange delay between his lips shaping the question and the sound of it reaching his ears.
"Only slightly," Athos assures him. "The fever isn't bad, and Aramis expects it won't last long."
D'Artagnan hums, and lets his eyes close. He feels dreadful, but if Athos says it isn't serious…
"Can you eat something?" Athos asks, and his stomach turns at the mere thought of it.
"No." It comes out far more piteously than he'd intended, but he can't quite bring himself to care.
"All right," Athos says. "Just rest, then. We're in no hurry. Just rest."
And, so bidden, he drifts off again.
. . .
(come on, we all knew this was coming eventually)