A/N: For those interested, Infirmary Talks has now had 130,470 views! Still going strong; I have another few in the pipeline. Many thanks for sticking with me on this particular verse. As I've said before, I thought I might be able to write maybe twenty separate stories on this one theme, and here I am posting Chapter 110! Hope you enjoy this one. It's set pre S1, in the early stages of their friendship.
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110. A Stitch in Time
Aramis, Athos and Porthos.
In the early days of Aramis's budding interest in medicine and their burgeoning reliance on his skills;
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Ah, the needle.
Many a man had wilted at the sight of it.
"Hold still."
"Easy for you to say," Athos murmured. "Have you done this before?"
"No, but I've been practising."
"On what?"
Aramis let go of his arm whilst avoiding the question, but Athos was having none of it.
"On what, precisely?" he intoned as he leant over Aramis's shoulder to peer at the unfortunate who was now taking his attention.
Fortunately, the unfortunate was unconscious.
Aramis stilled and a small smile crossed his face.
"On the battlefield," Aramis replied.
Athos hummed.
"I'm impressed," he said, in an impressed voice.
"Don't be," Porthos laughed.
Athos raised an eyebrow and gave him a look that said, "Tell me more."
Aramis was, after all, going to stitch him up after the unfortunate, so he wanted to be sure of a few facts.
Porthos clamped his jaws shut, not wishing to irritate Aramis, who had a job to do, albeit on a man who was totally unaware of his surroundings and of the disquieting conversation going on over his prone body.
Aramis, by this time, had threaded his needle.
"I'll have you know, my noble friend, that I have had a lot of practise."
Athos re-employed his original "Tell me more" face.
"Watch and learn," Aramis said, as he took a breath, flexed his shoulders and bent to his task.
His fingers were indeed, nimble and fast and soon the wound was closed with a line of small, neat stitches.
"Your turn now," he said, addressing Athos, while rethreading his needle.
"So," Athos said, warily, "This practise of yours?"
Aramis sighed.
"Does it matter, now you can see the evidence of my work with your own eyes?"
"That may have been beginner's luck," Athos muttered, as he rolled up his sleeve.
"Athos, please," Aramis admonished. "Is the battlefield not enough for you?"
"Just, what did you do on this battlefield?" Athos persisted.
Aramis waggled the needle.
"If you must know, I sewed their names and regiments on their chests."
"On their jackets?" Athos replied, "How was that practise for what you are doing here?"
Porthos coughed,
Aramis abraded him with a frown.
"On their jackets, yes," Aramis said carefully.
"And if they had no jackets, he sewed the label to their skin," Porthos added, happily.
"Good God," Athos said, eyes wide.
"What else would you suggest I did?" Aramis replied. "It was common practise."
"Tie a label around a toe?" Athos suggested, his voice losing some of its command. "Or an ankle? If he had a head, around the neck!"
Aramis considered this, as he rethreaded his needle, which had come loose with all this chit chat.
"All laudable suggestions," he agreed, squinting as the thread refused to do his bidding. "But they could be removed by persons of unscrupulous morals."
"Why would someone want to remove information from a corpse?" Athos said, thoroughly confused now.
"For all sorts of reasons," Aramis replied, raising the now-threaded needle in triumph. "And I am sure the generals had their reasons."
"How did you …?"
"Well," said Aramis, warming to his tale now. "At first, my stitches were rather large and I grant you, they could have been easily cut, but as time progressed, I defined my technique and in the end, if I say so myself, my work was very neat."
"I am so glad," Athos replied, feeling a little green.
"Come now, Athos," Aramis smiled a wicked smile, "Surely you are not going to be a difficult patient?"
"Well, you are probably not used to that!" Athos intoned.
"I got very few complaints," Aramis replied, beaming at him. "None, actually."
Athos steeled himself and submitted to the needle. Rolling down his sleeve, he uttered his thanks and bid them a hasty farewell, no doubt heading for the nearest tavern.
"That was fun," Aramis said, giving Porthos a wide smile.
"When you suggested it, I didn't think he'd believe you," Porthos replied, watching as Aramis packed away his medical kit.
"And I didn't think you'd believe me," Aramis said, patting him on the cheek and heading off.
Porthos frowned.
"Wait! What? Believe you did or believe you didn't?" he called out.
But Aramis was gone.
Later, as Aramis watched his friends sparring in the yard, he smiled to himself. He had forgotten that tale and was surprised that Porthos had remembered it. He supposed it would stick in the memory, somewhat. He had told it to a particularly obnoxious cadet one day in Porthos's presence and it had done the trick, the cadet almost fainting, but at least compliant.
One day, he would put the record straight but it did not go amiss to have a little leverage in this place. A little one upmanship, a little mystique for he who wields the needle. After all, those two were quite bad patients at times and the needle, such a small weapon, always outranked the musket in the infirmary as the harbinger of power. He was rather fond of his set of needles.
He checked on his patient, who was still out and then took the cot next to him, stretching out his legs. He would wait until the man woke before taking his leave for the night. In the meantime, he pulled a small book of poetry from inside his coat and opened it at the well-worn ribbon he had once been given by a beautiful lady, whose name escaped him. He had an assignation this evening and wanted to commit a particular piece to memory. It would not do to falter half way through his recital, while her eyes were ablaze with love and admiration.
He settled in with a smile.
Ah, the needle.
Such a small thing, but so powerful!
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Thanks for reading! More soon.
