a/n: Thanks to Issai for betareading and for giving me so many ideas and suggestions on how to make this story better than the messy first draft I initially sent. Any remaining mistakes are my own doing.

summary: The aftermath of Aramis' decision.

Chapter 50

He's not stupid. After he left Constance's, he found a motel to stay in. Leaving Chicago isn't something that he's really thought about. All he knew when he left was that he couldn't stay. With everything that happened, going back to the others, not ever being able to fully be a Musketeer again, it just wasn't going to happen. He doesn't have the money to stay at a motel forever, but for a week or two until he can manage to figure out what he's going to do next, it'll be fine.

He spends the first couple of days sleeping and putting heating pads on his sore muscles. His body wasn't ready for the run he made through the city after Constance's graduation ceremony. Even at the apartment, he was sore and winded. His sleep, however, has been restless. The bed is on the hard and uncomfortable side and the neighbors have a few kids who don't know the meaning of the word quiet. And then his mind won't stop replaying that argument and everything that happened in the last year. It's given him some rough nights, so when he has his first flashback, he's not surprised.

It hits him when he's trying to sleep, the worst of the panic attacks yet and as much as he tries to ground himself as he feels himself slipping more and more into it, he can't. Her voice is too strong and just the whiff of her perfume blanks his mind. His arms itch at the tape over the IV ports. She'd made him so sick, he had them in both arms. His heart stops and then starts racing. He's pinned, restrained because he keeps pulling out his IVs and tearing up his arms.

He can't breathe even though there's an oxygen mask on his face because he keeps knocking the nasal cannula off. She touches his arm, fingers tracing down from the crook of his elbow to the port taped to his wrist. There's nothing sensuous about it and it makes his spine tingle uncomfortably. His lungs are burning and his chest aches. He's soon going to hyperventilate.

"Calm down, Aramis. Getting yourself worked up is only going to make things worse."

Once his vision and hearing start to go, he has little awareness of his surroundings, real or imagined. Passing out is a relief that he doesn't realize but it comes.

"Hey, buddy, you can't stay here."

Aramis wakes to someone talking gruffly at him and something prodding him roughly in the back. It's annoying and he tries to reach a hand around to grab at it, but his hands are stiff and clumsy. He settles on groaning and finding the energy to push himself onto his side.

"Good. You're awake. Now, get up and move before we have to arrest you for being a nuisance to the public."

"Huh?"

Before he's able to make any other sound or attempts to orient himself, hands are on him, pulling him upright without much care. Instinctively, he starts struggling against them. There's cursing and shoving. He's hit and kicked until he's standing upright on wobbly legs, hands held roughly behind his back.

In front of him is a police officer. He doesn't recognize the man but the look of disgust and anger is familiar. The person behind him he guesses is another cop.

"Yeah, that's more like it." The cop in front of him gives him an unpleasant snarl.

"Let me go." Aramis fights against them, trying to pull his arms free. The mental fuzziness that had greeted him when he woke is gone thanks to the surge of adrenaline.

"Yeah. Should just run you in. But it won't still. I know it won't. Some judge will probably toss the case on some new age hippie reasoning but people like you don't belong on the street. You'll just scare some poor kid or rob someone to get more money for your drugs." For a moment, Aramis freezes then he hears the metallic clink of the handcuffs, and he bolts, throwing all the officer's grip, who cries out and jumps back slightly a surprise. It's adrenaline again that fuels this run but it's not a good kind. His mind is frantic, confused as he runs with little thought as to where. He's careful to avoid roads and people but otherwise, the run is without direction.

His knees give out before his brain and when he tries to get going again, to pick himself back up his muscles quake and his body feels heavy. His joints are frozen, stiff as though they need some lubrication but what would he use. He collapses to the ground, out of breath, and his mind a chaotic mess. Aramis lays there until it has long grown dark. His mind slows and although he still feels like thinking is a trudge through thick mud, he starts looking around to see where he's at. From his time as a Musketeer, he knows much of the city, but his mind blanks on where to go.

So he lays there for a while longer as he thinks. There's not much in the alley save for some trash and discarded furniture but it's not the coldest of nights. He's spent worse outdoors. He stays there to let his body rest, he tells himself. Moving is not a welcome thought. The aches he had from his previous run at Constance's graduation are still there. His doctor had warned him to take care. He's still recovering. His legs are weak. There was even talk of continuing his physical therapy. He should be doing that he supposes but he's tired of appointments. Frankly, he's tired of everything. And staying out here? That doesn't seem so bad. The alley is rarely used from what he can see except as a trash dump. There might be some chilly nights to come and some rainy ones but it's nothing he hasn't dealt with before.

Still, the thought of moving is too much, so he stays there on the ground. It's hard and cold but he's comfortable enough that his eyes begin drifting shut.

Sometime, on maybe the second or third day that he's been in the alley, he realizes how hungry and thirsty he is. He's already done a cursory glance around the alley, taking stock of his surroundings and there doesn't seem to be anything of much use to him lying around, so he finally forces himself to get to his feet. He groans, his joints and muscles groaning at the effort. His knees falter and his head swims. He's waited far too long to do anything and it's come back to bite him now. But he makes himself get up and move. As he moves, slowly at first and very carefully. He keeps a hand on the brick wall to his side. He leans heavily against it as he trudges through the alley, doing his best to avoid the trash on the ground.

His progress is slow as he has to stop occasionally when a wave of dizziness takes over. He's not sure that if he falls he's going to be able to get back up easily. Once he's out of the alley, he sees little of use. It's a fairly run-down area with some apartments and a few stores with bars over their windows. The cars on the road are aged and rusty, some held together with duct tape others with a hood or door of a different color.

He wanders out a little more and pauses, leaning back against the damp brick wall. There's a broken edge that cuts into his back but he ignores it.

He looks to his right, where there are at least some signs. At first, he doesn't see anything of use. Then he catches sight of a sign down at the end, near the corner. His eyes won't quite focus, but he thinks it might be a convenience store of some kind. As a new wave of nausea hits him, he closes his eyes. He has to get moving. If he doesn't, he fears he'll be stuck here forever.

So he takes a deep breath and pushes himself off of the wall. He sticks close to the wall though, not wanting to risk falling or even losing his balance enough that he can't remain standing without help. There are some areas along his slow walk when he can't reach far enough to grasp the wall without making himself further off balance.

He goes into the shop, making the bells on the door chime loudly. He's not more than a step inside the store when a woman starts shouting.

"No, get out. We don't want your kind here." The woman motions with her hands for him to leave and fixes him with an angry glare.

He pauses and stumbles. "No, no. I'm just looking to get something to drink and eat. I'm not here to cause trouble."

"If you want food then you better have money." She stands firm.

"Of course. Of course." Aramis nods. He searches through his pockets to find his wallet and the cash he knows is there or should be. He thinks that he left the apartment with his wallet but he can't recall it clearly. His search turns frantic when he finds his pockets empty. He doesn't remember if they should be or if he's been robbed.

"I... I had cash. I... My wallet... I don't know." His lost stammering seems to calm the woman's anger. The look of pity in her eyes stops him though.

"Look, I can't help you here but there's a soup kitchen just around the corner to the right. It's even got pretty good food for a place like that."

"I... I had money. I don't..."

"Look, my boss likes to come in at random times and he'll have me call the police if you're still here." She shrugs her shoulders, giving him a pleading look.

Aramis nods blankly. He doesn't have to be completely clear of mind to know what she's asking. His mind's gone fuzzy and before he's quite sure what's happening, the young woman is leading him out of the building. She's not pushy but it's clear that she wants him out. He goes with it without thought.

"Just around the corner." She reminds him again once they're out on the street. He nods absently. The woman gives him a last look and leaves him there. It takes him a long moment until he forces a foot forward. He moves in halting, robotic steps, one hand automatically reaching out to touch the brick wall. His fingers more brushing lightly against it than using it for actual support.

Just as he's got the door in his sights, his foot catches on something, he doesn't see it. He tries to catch himself with his hands but the effort is mostly in vain. He falls on his side, his head hitting roughly on the ground.

When he awakes, it's night and there's an insistent voice trying to wake him.

"You need to wake up, sir, or I'm going to have to call for an ambulance."

He groans but tries to open his eyes. Instinctively, he knows that an ambulance is the last thing he wants. His head aches as does his body. He tries moving to his back but the person stops him.

"No, no. You shouldn't move yet. Let your body wake up and let's see how bad you're hurt first. Yes, that's it. Em, he's waking up." That last part is louder and Aramis figures they are shouting to someone inside. "Hey, Em. I think it's that guy from the news. The man the police were looking for. We should call and let them know he's here."

"No. Don't do anything. Just keep him there until I get there. I'm just about done."

"Wha... Whe..." His mouth is dry and his mind too muddled to put together anything more than partial words, but the message seems to get across.

"You're outside Em's kitchen. I found you here when we were starting to close up. How're you feeling?" He appreciates the soft, caring voice. It soothes him.

"Hurts," he says, voice slurring.

"Yeah, you probably got a concussion."

"Yeah, okay." The words slip out of him on an exhale.

"Can you feel everything?"

"Huh?"

"She's wanting to know if you can feel your legs and arms and such. Did you hurt your back or neck?" It's a different voice than the one that had been next to him. He's stiff and sore though, so craning his neck is not possible. Instead, he rolls onto his back, ignoring the protests to be gentle or let them help.

"Aramis? It really is you." The one who recently came out says, her voice a pitch higher in surprise. Even in his fogginess, in the pain, and barely held back panic, he recognizes the voice and it sends a wave of calm through him like he hasn't experienced in months, since before everything started going down.

"Em," he says, not bothering to hide the relief in his voice.

"You know him?" The other woman looks up at Emory.

"Yeah, but I never wanted to see him again," Emory says with a sad smile. "I thought when they canceled the alert he'd been found."

"Oh, I'm still good." Aramis tries to convince her.

"I know you better than that."

"Okay, "the other woman interrupts. "Let's get him inside where it's warm and then we can sort this and your past out."

"Always the practical one, Rachel."

"No, That's you. I'd like to not have this man get sick on top of a concussion."

"Well, there's that."

Aramis tries to do his part in getting on his feet and going inside but he's stiff and his muscles are weak. He mentally curses the last several months for destroying his body. Emory and Rachel do much of the work, apologizing when he can't hold back a gasp or cry at the pain. For his part, he apologizes when his body gives out, forcing them to take the majority of his weight. Emory decides to take him upstairs to her room. They lay him down on the couch.

"Rachel, would you go get the extra blankets and some spare clothes for Aramis," Emory says, opening up the first aid kit. Rachel looks to Aramis. It's clear that Emory wants her gone while they talk although she's not sure how much talking there will be. Aramis is pale and breathing heavily. His eyes are closed and his face is pinched in pain.

"Okay," she nods and goes in search of the clothing and blankets.

Emory starts cleaning the cuts and scrapes without speaking. Aramis she knows needs a moment to rest and gather his thoughts.

"Ask your questions, Em. I know you're itching to," Aramis says after a stretch of silence. He's not really up to the questions but the tension of waiting is worse.

"What happened?"

"Everything," he says quietly.

"You were doing so good. And the Musketeers were working out for you. And your friends? The ones you moved in with."

"All gone. They betrayed me. I can't trust them anymore and I'm done with the Musketeers. I can't be one anymore. This last year, the last several months… My body can't do it. What Afghanistan didn't do, they finally did."

"Wait. That case about the killer nurse and the Musketeer..." It's a leap she knows, but when his name was the only one of the trio she knew he worked with didn't show up in the news she wondered if it was him.

"Yeah." Aramis closes his eyes and turns his head away. He knew it was all over the news. The one good thing Treville did in it all was to keep his name out of it. At least he doesn't have to worry about being the subject of the next Lifetime movie.

Emory doesn't know what to say. Aramis doesn't want pity or platitudes.

"So what now? You've gone back to the streets?"

"No. I... I'm..."

"Yeah. Typical Aramis. No plan at all."

"I had to go. I had to get away."

"Oh. I've no doubt but what now."

"I don't know. I just couldn't stay with them. They didn't understand. They tried but couldn't see what they did was wrong and I couldn't trust them again. And I can't be a Musketeer because of it all. My body is broken worse than before."

Emory doesn't want to argue with him. She's sure that there's more to the story. Aramis gets his mind clouded easily when he's angry and reason is the last thing to return. Judging by the dark circles under his eyes and the paleness of his face, he's not going anywhere right now. In fact, as she continues cleaning his wounds and carefully bandaging them, his eyes begin to drift close. Once Rachel comes back with the blankets, Aramis is sound asleep, looking far more peaceful than Emory imagines he has in a while.

He wakes several times during the night, dreams and nightmares pulling him from sound sleep. Emory hears them but leaves him be. When Aramis finally wakes it's just after she's finished with the breakfast rush. He's unsteady still as he makes his way into the kitchen but he is wearing the clean clothes she set out for him.

"How's the head," she asks, putting together a small plate of eggs and fruit for him.

"Hurts still but not as bad as last night."

"Good. Eat this and then I'll get you something for the pain." She hands him the plate.

He takes the plate, looking a little nauseous at the idea of eating but thanks her and goes to sit in the dining area.

"There's a table in the back here." Emory stops him before he can get too far.

She cleans up as he eats.

"I can let them know that you're here. If you want," she says once he's eaten and taken some pain medicine.

"No. It's fine. I… I don't want to talk with them."

"You don't have to but at least let me tell them you're okay."

"They'll just come down here to take me back," Aramis says.

Emory pauses. He doesn't know that they stopped looking and she isn't sure how he'll take it.

"I don't think they will. They canceled the alert."

"When?" Aramis looks up, surprise clear on his face.

"After a day or so. I thought it meant they'd found you."

"No. I'd left them a note, asking them not to look. A lot of good that did," he adds with a huff.

"They were concerned," she tries automatically.

"They should've been concerned months ago instead of thinking I'd lost it again." He doesn't try to temper his anger but she doesn't let it faze her.

"Okay. I get that you're angry with them but I still think you should let one of them know. Now, I have to start getting lunch together. You know they'll be in here waiting all too soon for their next meal."

While Emory works on preparing lunch, Aramis sneaks off upstairs. She hears him mumble something about a headache. The next couple of days pass much the same. He sleeps or simply rests in the darkness of the room as his concussion heals and he fights off the cold that Rachel tried to ward off. Emory doesn't try to push him to let his friends know where he's at and, though she's tempted, she doesn't let them know either. She is, apparently, one of the last people that Aramis trusts and she's not going to ruin that.

Once he starts feeling better, Aramis finds his way to the kitchen, silently helping Emory with her meal preparations. There are a lot of people who come through the soup kitchen, even more now with the economy doing poorly.

There's nothing spoken about Aramis staying there. Neither Rachel nor Emory have the heart to send him on his way. It's not out of pity that they make him stay but more from worry and concern. They give him his space and help him when it's clear that he needs it but refuses to ask.

For his part, Aramis doesn't try to leave. He takes care of his few possessions, ill-fitting clothes that Rachel found at a thrift store and a book. He's quiet and helpful though still clearly recovering mentally and physically. The few hours it takes to get the meals together wear him out, leaving him sweating and shaky until Emory and Rachel force him to sit.

"I'll let d'Artagnan know," Aramis says as they're washing dishes about a week after they first found him at the door of their soup kitchen.

"I think he'll be glad to know," Emory says with a relieved smile. He's still far from recovered and this decision is only one on the path toward recovery. But she is happy that he's come to it. The rest will come with time and patience but she is certain that they'll all reconcile. It won't be tomorrow or maybe even this year. As much hurt and pain they caused Aramis, she knows that they will find a path to forgiveness.

Unfortunately, this isn't the happy ending that any of us wanted after the wild journey of this story. This wasn't the original ending I wrote or that I was even trying to write. That's part of what took so long for me to write it. Once I figured out the right ending, I found a way to end this story. It's not the ending of this AU, however, because the ultimate goal is to get the gang back together. I do have some shorts that I'll be uploading once I edit them. Thanks for sticking with the story on its ups and downs and the time it took me to complete it.