Summary: Sometimes it's like Aramis isn't there with them anymore, his mind drawn back to a place Porthos can't follow.
A/N: Thank you Uia and chanda for your reviews!
Tag to 1x01, because even though we weren't aware at the time, that scene of them finding Cornet in the forest had to bring up certain memories.
"Snow Covered Ghosts"
Porthos will chastise himself later for not anticipating this. The scene of Cornet and the other musketeer bodies lying in the snow with carrion birds for company was all too reminiscent of another scene from five years earlier. But time had been of the essence to prove Athos's innocence and save him from execution, and so Porthos hadn't stopped to consider what other ramifications this tragedy might have.
He does now as he looks up from his game of cards with d'Artagnan and catches sight of Aramis at the table where they'd left him, his gaze drawn to the worn wood and one hand rubbing at the side of his head under his hair. Porthos straightens at the telltale gesture; he hasn't seen it in a couple of years and knows its revival is not a good sign.
"Everything all right?" d'Artagnan asks.
Porthos likes the brash lad, he does, but he's only known him for a day and some secrets have to be earned.
"I'm afraid I have to cut our game short," he says.
The boy blinks. "Oh. Okay."
Porthos starts gathering up the cards. "Next time no interruptions, an' I'll beat you."
D'Artagnan perks up slightly at the suggestion that there will be a next time. Porthos recognizes loneliness when he sees it; he's been on that end of the bench often enough himself. He feels the need to offer the lad something.
"Will you get Athos for me?" he asks. "Tell 'im it's Aramis an' hopefully he's not too far in his cups to know what that means."
D'Artagnan throws a look over his shoulder at the marksman, who's still sitting in a quiet stupor. "Sure," he says slowly and rises from his seat.
Porthos stuffs the cards inside his coat and moves back over to the other table, sliding into the chair next to Aramis. He scoots it closer and leans in. "Hey," he says softly, trying not to startle him. "Where are you?"
It takes a prolonged moment for Aramis's gaze to track upward, and there's a lost look in those dark eyes. "What?"
"I'm thinkin' it's time we went home."
Aramis's brow furrows slightly. "You're finished?"
"Yeah." Porthos picks up Aramis's goblet and moves it away, though the marksman has barely drank any of it. Unlike Athos, who drinks himself into a stupor to escape his ghosts, Aramis's are quite capable of dragging him there unaided.
Athos walks around the other side of the table and stops to survey Aramis. Fortunately, it seems he hasn't gone too far into his cups. Porthos doesn't think he would have been able to carry them both home.
D'Artagnan hovers a few steps behind him, watching with both confusion and concern as Aramis seems barely cognizant of their presence and shivers despite the warm, stuffy air in the tavern. He presses his palm agitatedly into the side of his head.
"Let's go," Athos says and reaches down to take Aramis's arm and pull him up. Aramis complies docilely, a state Porthos has always hated. It's like the marksman isn't there with them anymore, his mind drawn back to a place Porthos can't follow.
"Do you…need help?" d'Artagnan asks uncertainly.
"We'll be fine," Athos replies directly, though not unkindly. "Do you have your own lodgings in the city?" he then asks. "It can be dangerous at night."
Aramis visibly stiffens and starts looking around. Porthos mentally curses Athos's choice of words and moves closer to take the marksman's other arm, sandwiching him between the two. He picks up Aramis's weapons belt and hat with his other.
D'Artagnan nods. "Yes. I'll be fine."
Porthos almost laughs at the echo of Athos's earlier words. He wants to see those two get along with each other, as he imagines it could prove very entertaining. But that's a thought for tomorrow.
They bid goodnight to d'Artagnan and steer Aramis out of the tavern into the street. It's cold, and their breaths puff out in white clouds before their faces. There's no snow in the city; any flakes that fall quickly turn to sludge in the streets, but the kiss of winter is ever present and tangible.
They head for Athos's apartments because it's closer than the garrison. The trek up the stairs is slow but Porthos has had ample practice manipulating a pliant body up them. Aramis jerks and twitches at every little sound though, and in that way he's different than lugging a drunken Athos up those same steps.
They finally get inside and guide Aramis to sit on the edge of the unmade bed. Athos places the back of his hand against Aramis's brow and then cheek, frowning at what he feels.
"What brought this on?" he asks as he moves away to start up a fire in the hearth.
Porthos snatches a blanket off the bed and wraps it around Aramis's shoulders. When the ghosts come to call, it's like they somehow physically take hold of Aramis's body, dropping his temperature in a way that no amount of warmth seems to soothe in the throes of it.
"Cornet," he says quietly, although he's not sure Aramis is even hearing them at this point. "We found his troop in the woods half buried in snow. An' there were crows."
The lines around Athos's mouth tighten and he stokes the growing fire more urgently. Then he pours some water from the pitcher into a tin cup and places it on the hearth close to the flames to warm the liquid.
Porthos sinks onto the mattress beside Aramis, pressing close against him to offer some warmth. Aramis shudders. "Hey. You're wit' me an' Athos in his apartments. You see that?"
Aramis doesn't look at him. He's staring down as though there's something captivating about the floor. One hand drifts up toward the side of his head where the scar is hidden.
Porthos captures that hand before it can go there and squeezes hard. "Feel where you are?"
"C-cold," he stutters.
"Here." Athos picks up the cup and brings it over, holds it to Aramis's lips. "Drink," he prompts, and Aramis obeys. When he's done, Aramis's eyes finally seem to focus a bit on Athos.
"They left them in the forest."
"I know."
"I- I'll wake up there."
"No, you won't." Athos bends down and begins to remove Aramis's boots.
When he's done, Porthos scoots back on the bed, pulling Aramis with him. He sits with his back to the wall and Aramis propped against him inside the circle of one arm. Athos leans over and tucks the blanket over Aramis's shoulders. He grabs another from a trunk and folds it over the marksman's legs, effectively cocooning him. Then he does Porthos the favor of removing his boots, since his arms are full, and lastly his own before climbing onto the bed on Aramis's other side and taking up a mirror position to Porthos's.
They haven't had to do this in years but the routine is still familiar, ingrained after months of experience and harrowing nights. Porthos hopes it's just the one time, brought on by the gruesome discovery in the woods, that Aramis will wake tomorrow once again his normal self.
But for tonight, Porthos and Athos will take watch and stand guard against snow covered ghosts.