Edit: Because this is updated irregularly I keep forgetting to thank the lovely guest reviewers for their comments on previous chapters. So, thank you! I appreciate them.

I feel a need to apologize. My 'soon's rarely prove to be actually soon; my sense of time is going through a period of readjustment and I'm losing track of everything these days. This is another scrap turned into a relatively palatable snack (I hope), though it's not the promised 'early meeting' one. That one's still cooking. This one has no specific time frame, but I imagine it relatively early in the series. It's also quite gloomy. (Kindly forgive the mistakes - some things always elude the spell & grammar check.)

X. Of Stillness.

"Any change?"

The infirmary.

That's what the Musketeers call this room at the ground floor of the garrison's left wing, just off at the far end of the stables, like a long-forgotten private joke. It's a funny room, long and narrow, with one of its walls so off the course that instead of running parallel to its opposite, it steers off like a drunkard attempting to walk a straight line. There's just enough space at the short end for a window, which is the only thing that saves the room from ending in a triangle. The entire room is like an architectural mistake tried to be swept under the rug: the constant dark and gloom due to its dour lack of sunlight, the unforgivable absence of a fireplace for its unfortunate occupants, and with only three rickety cots with little space between them to maneuver, one cannot think of a room less convenient for use as an infirmary than this. But infirmary it is.

While stationed in Paris, the Musketeers rarely have cause to spend much time in this room. It is a place to manage emergencies more than anything else, incidents of the kind that inevitably occur in a garrison where soldiers of all levels of experience constantly train and spar. It is a room, also, for incidents of the kind that are peculiar to the King's Musketeers, for the men carried in through the courtyard under cover of dark in order to avoid the wrathful eyes of their captain, who will spot bruises from a fight with the Red Guards or wounds from an illegal duel from miles. When illness strikes, the garrison has its own doctor by royal appointment; the Musketeers convalesce in their own barracks rooms. Hence, most days, the infirmary is but a depot for old cots, a few stools and, more suitably, medical supplies. There's a cabinet by the door - one has to wedge himself into the corner and tuck in an elbow in order to have enough space to open it - which holds bandages, spirits, jars of ointments and dried herbs, which Aramis, from time to time, checks to make sure it is well-stocked. A stack of clean cloths and rags are kept wrapped in a bundle, and a wicker basket contains two woollen blankets. The inside of the cabinet is much more reassuring to the eye than its outside.

And it is in this dreary room that Aramis is sitting today, with Porthos lying prone in the middle one of the three cots, his feet shooting off at the end, a grey blanket covering his still form from ankle to chest. A candle burns vivacious and bright by the bedside while rain splutters spitefully on the windowpane.

It was still morning when Porthos was carried in. The day is now nearly spent. Time is dragging itself like an old horse pulling up a heavy cart, and Aramis feels unaccustomedly alone.

"Aramis."

Looking up, he sees Athos standing in the doorway, a plate of food in one hand, doublet missing, no weapons, but a frown deepening on his brow; any change? the question comes back to Aramis. He shakes his head, then lowers it and buries his hands in his hair.

Athos walks in with measured strides and leaves the plate down by the bed; circling around, he comes to stand behind Aramis. A moment later, his hand rests lightly on Aramis's shoulder. It's a perch rather than a landing, but Aramis is very grateful; for a long moment, it is the three of them again, one standing, one sat, one abed - it is important now, for some reason, that it is still the three of them.

"You need to get some sleep."

"I'm fine," Aramis shakes his head.

"Aramis."

"I can't sleep now, Athos, not even if I wanted to." He looks up over his shoulder, glimpses at Athos's face. "D'Artagnan?"

"He's following a lead. Tréville's assigned three teams; the men are out on the streets. They'll find them."

Them, the perpetrators, of whom Aramis knows, or indeed, guesses nothing, and right now, cares nothing. Because Porthos's stillness is frightening him beyond anything.

The surgeon has said a tentative maybe, nothing more.

"Aramis."

It is only Aramis, but it is you need to rest; I'll watch over him and wake you if anything changes, but you must eat and rest. Athos has his ways of making people confront unwelcome truths. Sometimes it is direct, blunt and unavoidable, almost hostile, even; but that's something Aramis has long learned not to resent, even has come to depend upon. Other times, it suffices for Athos to utter a single word, and the intonation alone makes the omnipresent undeniable.

Aramis does need the rest. He's had the night shift on guard detail at the palace; it was only two hours into his sleep that the commotion had broken out. Sleep is draped heavily over him, pushes down with a vengeance now when brought to attention again. Of course Athos is right. Aramis is content, at least, in the knowledge that at the slightest twitch of Porthos's finger, Athos will wake him up.

So he relents. Hands on his knees, he gets to his feet, turns to move around the bed and only then he notices the stain on Athos's sleeve. Frowning for a moment, he rubs a weary hand down his face as guilt hurls itself at him like a handful of sand - he's forgotten that Athos, too, has been injured this morning.

"Let me see to that."

Athos quirks an eyebrow, then turns his gaze to his own arm. Inspects the limb for a moment, then, because he, too, is perfectly capable of self-preservation, nods his consent.

Aramis moves off to gather a bowl, water and a cloth even as Athos sits and begins to roll up the sleeve. Returning, Aramis leaves the items down and takes over the unwrapping. Peeling away the makeshift bandage, he frowns deeply at the mess of flesh on the inner arm, blood, hours later, still seeping in droplets from the cut. Athos's face is like a statue as he observes the proceeding with disinterest.

"This is bad," Aramis remarks, throwing a glance at his friend. He's not even sure if Athos is aware of how bad this looks - is the man not feeling the pain? But then his thumb traces the edge of the cut and a hiss wrings itself from Athos's lips as the arm jerks; instinct has Aramis's fingers close over the wrist but he, too, winces.

"My apologies." He hastily rises to bring spirits, needle and thread and carries them over, adding, because he can't help it, "You should have come to me sooner. This should have been seen to hours ago." But there's no heat in his words, because if Aramis were in Athos's place, he, too, wouldn't think about his own injury, and not bother anyone with it when Porthos is fighting for his life.

Fighting for his life.

Without realizing, his eyes steer again to Porthos, seeing but unable to really feel anything, thinking but still unable to process.

Porthos...

"He'll wake up, Aramis."

Aramis lets go of a breath; doesn't look up.

"We don't know that."

"He will wake up," Athos insists, quiet but firm.

"There is no knowing it, Athos. Willing it will not change the outcome."

Abruptly, Athos's good hand closes on Aramis's wrist and traps the hand on Athos's torn arm. When Aramis looks up, Athos cants his head at him, watching him with clear, narrowed eyes.

"You speak as if it's already fixed."

Aramis blinks, and almost bites his lip as he glimpses the fear nestled deep in Athos's eyes. Swallows and looks away, but the grip on his wrist remains; Athos is waiting, Aramis needs to say something to him but he cannot. He can't find anything real enough to say.

He doesn't have Athos's penchant for holding up truths, especially when he doesn't want to believe them in the first place.

The two men stay like that for a long moment, trapped in each other's grip, locked in a reluctant draw.

Then Athos's grip slowly loosens, and lets go of Aramis's wrist, his arm dropping gently to the side. The other arm remains propped on Aramis's knee, Aramis's hand still closed over his raw wound, and it is another moment before either of them moves.

Silent and still, all three of them, in the gloom of this dark, drunken room.

Natural for Athos; familiar to Aramis, but this... this is altogether wrong on Porthos.

Aramis cleans Athos's wound, sews it with his tiny, neat stitches, and carefully wraps in bandages. His face nearly white by the time it ends, Athos takes a few moments to gather himself, then hands the bowl of food to Aramis and takes over watching Porthos while Aramis rests.

When d'Artagnan arrives, and the candle burns out as the night descends, the rain is still pattering on the window.