When they found him, he was slumped in a corner, and his eyes were glazed. Relief shot through d'Artagnan as he clipped his pistol on his belt and ran to his friend. Porthos and Aramis were at his back, wielding the torches.

"Athos."

There was no reaction. d'Artagnan's hand fell on his friend's shoulder as he crouched down, but Athos seemed unaware. In the approaching light, sweat glistened on his face, and a hint of saliva at the corner of his mouth.

A questioning glance shot to Aramis, and d'Artagnan scooted aside to make room. Porthos took the second torch as well, remaining upright to provide the light.

"Athos, my friend."

Nothing.

He appeared unharmed.

Yet, as Aramis looked closer at him, he found Athos tightly strung, unnaturally tense.

"What is it - what's wrong with him?"

"You smell that?" asked Porthos, frowning deeply. A horrible sense of foreboding made d'Artagnan back away a bit from Athos, as if it were a physical force.

Shaking his head, Aramis eased himself to his knees, placed two very careful hands on Athos's shoulders and gathered the unresisting man towards himself, peering down at his back.

He flinched, and would have crossed himself if his arms weren't full. d'Artagnan dove in to look at what Aramis had found.

He saw nothing at first, in the wavering dark between Athos and the wall.

Weavering. Upon closer scrutiny, the leather of the uniform seemed bunched up, crinkled, sticking across Athos's back.

Then the smell hit him. Burned leather. Burned flesh.

His hand flew to his mouth as he fell back, horrified. Aramis's hand moved up to cradle the back of Athos's head, holding the man to himself in a firm, yet infinitely gentle embrace.

"Let's get him out of here," he said tightly, glancing up at Porthos.

For Athos, found and safe now in their company, was in agony.

"Can you hear me?" Aramis whispered later, when he was at the back of the cart with Athos's head resting on his lap. They'd laid him on his side, cushioned him with bales of hay and hadn't touched his uniform. One hand tenderly on his friend's head, Aramis could see that Athos's eyes were still open, unseeing.

"If you can, Athos... We'll fix this, mon cher. Just hold on."

He was already mentally flipping through his past experiences with burns, encountered mostly after explosions and shell blasts on the battleground. He'd seen his fair share of them. He'd tended some of them. He knew - and dreaded - what he would find beneath the scorched uniform.

But he would have to remove the leather and the shirt from the flesh first, and the echoes of the screams of men from his memories rose unbidden in his ears, and he closed his eyes and his hold on Athos's shoulder tightened.

Hold on. I'll fix this.

His eyes had fallen close when they maneuvered him onto a stretcher and carried him to the infirmary. But he was still conscious, for he remained terribly tense. As they laid him down on his front on a long table layered with blankets, Porthos observed how quickly and shallowly his friend was breathing.

Lemay had been dispatched to, but he'd be found out of town.

"We're here, eh? We got you to the infirmary. Aramis is gonna take care o' you. Hold on." Thus said Porthos as he leaned over to eye-level with his friend, cupping a clammy cheek with a tentative hand.

Aramis wrapped an apron around his waist and approached, d'Artagnan carrying a basin of water to place it on another table nearby.

"The scissors."

Aramis's reluctance and determination, two distinct, yet equally strong emotions, were almost palpable.

Carefully, he cut the doublet around the large area that had melted and stuck to the skin. Then, with the help of d'Artagnan and Porthos, they removed the remains of the garment from Athos's back. Beneath the shirt that was not damaged, they found deep bruises across his shoulders, and down the back of his arms.

As they laid him back down on his front, they saw the tears of pain trickling down his face.

When he remained only in his braes and the dark material across his back like an ugly tattoo pressed into his skin, the three friends stood silently, staring at him for a moment.

"What do we do now?"

"The solution," murmured Aramis wearily.

d'Artagnan and Porthos exchanged a confused look.

"Yes, and what's that?"

"The solution," Aramis shook his head, "a mixture that will help remove the foreign material from his skin. Stay with him," he told the others unnecessarily as he went over to the medical cabinet in the corner to prepare it.

When he was ready, he crouched by Athos's ear before he began.

"I don't know if you can hear me... But you need to be resilient now, my friend. This is going to hurt. I must clean your back before we start treating it." I know you're already in agony and perhaps this is going to hurt even more, or perhaps, you're already in so much pain that you won't notice this. Either way, he couldn't make the pain go away - not yet. "Brace yourself." He brushed a hand against the bare skin of his friend's shoulder before shifting to take his stance.

He took a deep breath - careful to avoid looking at either Porthos or d'Artagnan – and began to gently apply the thick, greenish concoction onto the worst of the burns. Athos whimpered, and was immediately shushed by Porthos and d'Artagnan. Aramis was quick and light-handed about it. He knew for a fact that the solution soothed the pain to some degree, and did not agitate it. It was the merest sensation of touch that ignited the figurative fire.

It was the next part that he truly dreaded.

He closed his eyes, and muttered a prayer - Blessed be the Lord my God, who teaches my hands to fight, and my fingers to battle. He opened his eyes, and lowered the tip of the forceps into the wound.

Then the screaming began.

They sat with him through the first night, speaking quietly to him, trying to distract him from his agony. They fed him wine, wiped the sweat from his brow, and held his hand, but Athos remained unaware, locked inside a world that consisted of pain, pain, pain and nothing else. Around dawn, when he had been quiet for some time, they maneuvered him onto his side, so that Porthos could wipe his chest down, for he was getting very warm. "Fever?" d'Artagnan had inquired warily. Aramis had shaken his head. Fever he feared, for burns of this kind got infected too easily, but for now, he suspected it was only the effort Athos's body spent to withstand the pain.

"We're here," he murmured quietly as he took his seat at Athos's side once again, leaning over to push the hair back from his friend's eyes. "We're here, mon cher. Try to relax."

But the sun brought no hope, and no relief for Athos.

The three friends took turns in the morning to refresh themselves and grab a bite for breakfast. Captain Tréville dropped by before the morning muster and after being briefed by Aramis on the condition of the swordsman, he, too, stood for a few long moments over his lieutenant's bed, one hand placed tenderly on Athos's head as if in benediction, in a sentiment that seemed almost fatherly. Then, without another word, and with nods to each of his three men that conveyed his implicit permission to remain taking care of their fourth, he left to attend the business of running the regiment.

Now they only wished that Athos could sleep.

They wished he could find some rest.

But it wasn't to be - not for some time.

Around noon, he began to get agitated once more.

His eyes flew open and his breath quickened, coming in harsh pants. He almost rolled onto his back before, with cries of surprise and prevention Aramis and d'Artagnan both rushed to stop him, leaving him staring beggingly at Porthos, as if hoping for him to rescue him from this agony. It made Porthos almost cry.

"No, no, you can't lie on your back, your back's damaged, remember? What am I sayin'," he mumbled, "'course you remember, how can you forget-" What was he sayin'; why was he even speaking? - he felt like an idiot and dutifully avoided Athos's eyes even as he gripped his friend's hand, feeling utterly, stupidly useless. Useless.

Under their carefully restraining hands Athos groaned, and moaned, and cried, but never spoke.

"Give 'im somethin' to make 'im sleep, Aramis, won't you?"

"I will. I will," Aramis relented easily, getting to his feet quickly and rushing to the cabinet. "We must make him eat a little first - d'Artagnan-" But the Gascon was already at the door before Aramis had finished speaking.

It was a chore and a struggle to calm him and get him to swallow the stew while he lay on his side, and Aramis had to contend with a few spoonfuls instead of the entire bowl. But he didn't mind. He perched on the edge of the bed and held Athos's head up to get him to swallow the pain draught. He'd feared using this before, for it was potent, and he'd hoped the milder medicine he'd given him would work, and Athos would find sleep through his fatigue alone. It was not to be. At the moment, Aramis was only relieved that he could yet do something to help his friend, while he simultaneously feared -really feared- that this, too, might not be enough.

But it turned out to be enough, for after about ten minutes, the struggle began to die down. Athos began to relax, and finally, utterly exhausted, succumbed to sleep.

They all breathed sighs of relief. Porthos had to step out for a while to get himself sorted, and d'Artagnan and Aramis found solace in each other as they sat watching Athos with heavy hearts.

They would see their friend through this.

Of that there was no doubt.

"Is it... do you think I can see him?"

It was the next day, and d'Artagnan had found Constance standing at the garrison gate, mildly wringing her hands in a rare display of nerves, having been sent by the queen to inquire after Athos's health. She looked almost beggingly d'Artagnan, the weight and the seriousness of their subject having pushed aside the lingering awkwardness between the two.

Hands on his hips, d'Artagnan frowned as he regarded her beautiful, anxious blue eyes. If this weren't the garrison - if Athos were in his own rooms - he wouldn't hesitate, for Constance was... Constance. But here in the garrison, even though she was well-known to most of the men, the impertinence of Madame Bonacieux's visit to an ill, bed-ridden man within the barracks rooms, would be difficult to ignore.

He wouldn't care- he didn't. But Athos, the man made of honour, would, in Constance's name; and Constance, just last week, had made it perfectly clear that she certainly cared. Reputation before love; conformity before happiness - she'd made her choices clear. His disappointment in her was still scorching.

"I know it's... silly of me to ask," said Constance, bringing him back, waving a hand in the air and trying to smile, "it's just... I'd have really liked to see him."

"Come in the evening," said d'Artagnan, dropping his hands from their perch.

"What?"

"Come after dark. I'll get you in- most of the men won't be around. The Musketeers are men of honour, Constance. They won't start gossip - especially not about Athos. They have too much respect for him for that." Perhaps Athos would protest, but he'd have little say in the matter after the deed was done.

"Well, that's clever and all, d'Artagnan," said Constance with the beginning of a smile, "but wouldn't Athos be asleep?"

"Does it matter?" d'Artagnan countered, shrugging, "You said you wanted to see him. He's not much in the mood for conversation, anyway," he sighed.

"To be fair, he rarely is," Constance remarked, the playful smile making a stronger effort to break through. d'Artagnan, despite himself, chuckled slightly.

"Just... tell him I'm thinking of him, will you? And I'll come. I'll come visit another day, in daylight, when he's feeling better."

Respectful, if with a touch of lingering bitterness, of her decision, d'Artagnan acquiesced with a nod.

"Good day, Constance."

"Good day, d'Artagnan."

He stood watching until she rounded the corner and disappeared in the afternoon crowd.

"Aramis."

"Athos?"

Late in the evening, Aramis, alone in the infirmary with Athos, rushed towards the bedside, sinking down to his friend's eye-level. Athos was flushed, the fever that had spiked still haven't had died down. "Water?" he guessed.

A weak nod of the head.

Aramis helped him - a troublesome task as Athos remained lying on his front with his head turned to the side, a position that made it difficult to properly raise his head to partake of drink. And inevitably, some of the water spilled down onto the pillow.

Athos screwed his eyes shut. Aramis reached for a towel to wipe his friend's mouth and the moisture from the pillow, but Athos's hand rose unexpectedly, and grabbed Aramis's wrist to stop him with surprising strength. Frowning, Aramis looked down.

Athos was glaring at him, a burning, bright glare from the eyes of a man who breathed in shallow pants and grimaced from relentless, prolonged pain.

He needed sustenance. He would not stand to be coddled. Indeed, the look in Athos's eyes was not one for the faint-hearted.

It did not work on Aramis.

"Let me help," the marksman said quietly instead, holding Athos's gaze. No judgement, no fussing, no pity - only a masterful evenness of tone that made it impossible to raise an argument against. He said nothing more; only waited.

Several moments passed, then, either out of acceptance, or because he lacked the strength to maintain that hold, Athos's hand loosened its grip, and his eyes fell close.

Aramis was careful to keep his peace as he rose, and silently returned to his seat to continue his vigil.

"Porthos."

"Yea?"

Athos hesitated, a struggle passing through him, then he lowered his eyes.

"Will you help me turn on my side?"

"Which side?" asked Porthos, rising.

"Left."

The mission accomplished, Porthos looked over him assessingly. "Better?"

"Better," Athos nodded, "Thank you." The words were clipped; him, closed off - the Comte de la Fére. Porthos just laughed.

"You're welcome. Drink?"

The look he received this time was mild, relenting, perhaps even apologetic.

Porthos only grinned, and went to pour the wine.

"How's the pain?"

"More... manageable," Athos replied through gritted teeth. He'd sat up on the bed and d'Artagnan was helping him to change into a clean shirt.

"You mean it hurts like hell," d'Artagnan muttered before picking up the shirtsleeve. "Can you raise your arm a bit or - no, it's alright - I'll just - " The exercise left Athos panting, hunched over and supported by d'Artagnan on the bed, his eyes screwed shut. Moving his arms, trying to turn himself on the bed, anything that put a strain on his arms and back were sheer agony.

"Breathe," d'Artagnan reminded him quietly, "Breathe, Athos."

He waited until his friend gathered himself, and when he received a soft touch on his arm to indicate he was ready, he helped Athos to carefully turn and lie back down on his side.

He hated seeing Athos like this. He hated seeing him in this much pain, though, as was his wont, Athos bore it all stoically. But d'Artagnan longed to see his friend back to his own self, healthy and up on his feet.

Wordlessly, and perhaps a bit dejectedly, he dunked a cloth into a full basin, wrung it out and ran it gently over Athos's face. Breathing very carefully, Athos turned his head slightly to lean into the touch.

In a few minutes, he was once again asleep.

It took nearly two weeks for the agony to recede to truly manageable levels, and Athos began to remain sitting up more, although even that was a bit of a chore. The bruises across his back and arms, the source of a deep, heavy ache that was a steady undercurrent to the pain of his burns, began to fade, and as long as he was careful to not twist his torso, he could push himself up and shift on the bed. When he wanted to sit, they helped him out of the bed and into a chair that he straddled, leaning forward over the hard back. It was still more days before he could lean his back against some very soft cushions -he'd been surprised, suspicious, and terribly appreciative of them by turns-, or lie on it like a normal person again. He did not tell Aramis of the new aches he'd acquired in his neck and shoulders for constantly having to lie on his sides.

Constance came on the day he'd took his sword in his hand for the first time since that fateful day, when he was alone in the infirmary, and tried, carefully, to stretch his arm, testing himself. The pain nearly drove him to his knees and he all but dropped the sword; Porthos, having escorted Constance to the infirmary, found him on the floor by the bed, trying to get back to his feet. Though his first instinct was to run in to help, Porthos checked himself, and instead, remained careful to try and block Constance's view from the door until Athos rose.

Then he cleared his throat, and received a glare for his effort.

"You got a visitor," he announced only, and with a sympathetic glance at Madame Bonacieux, withdrew.

"Constance."

She smiled brightly, but with a hint of hesitation in her step as she walked in through the door. Athos seemed surprised to see her.

"Oh, don't tell me d'Artagnan forgot to mention I would visit," said she, in exasperation and disbelief.

Athos blinked. Perhaps d'Artagnan indeed had mentioned such a thing, though he did not recall. He shook his head.

"Well. It's... good to see you on your feet," said Constance rather awkwardly, clutching a small basket in her hand, glancing from side to side. Athos was still standing next to the bed, sword in one hand, circles under his eyes and a crease upon his brow. He was staring as if he couldn't fathom why she was here, but his glance must be particularly intense, for Constance, for a moment, faltered.

"Well, I'll just - I'll leave this here - I'd wanted to see how you were doing, you know, it's been a while and-"

"Constance." He stopped her quietly, and when she looked up, his expression had softened, and morphed into one of kindness - the face that she always associated with Athos, for it was with this face of his that she had first met, over three years ago. Relieved, she smiled.

"It's kind of you to come. Sit." He showed her to the only chair in the room and she took it pleasantly, waiting for him to sit as well. But Athos remained where he was, though, this time, he seemed awkward, remaining on his feet while she sat.

He glanced at the half-made bed. Constance trailed his eyes.

"Won't you sit?" she inquired, raising pretty eyebrows. Athos seemed hesitant. Constance rolled her eyes and grinned a bit. "Come on, it's hardly proper for you to stand like that when I'm sat. Sit down." She gestured towards the bed with her head. A smile of his own twitching his lips, Athos relented; left the sword leaning against the wall, carefully folded one leg under him and sat, settling against the pillows. Satisfied, Constance peered at him intently.

"You look well."

Athos raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"For a man who's been abed for over two weeks you really do look well," said Constance solemnly. "I'm glad, Athos. We've been.. frightened. The queen and I."

"Thank you," Athos returned, before Constance giggled unexpectedly, almost girlishly, and clapped a hand to her mouth.

"The queen and I - I can't believe I just said that. It's been over two months since I moved to the palace but it's still so... weird."

"She could not have found a better companion," returned Athos, smile solidifying as he looked at her, "d'Artagnan has done Her Majesty a great service by recommending you to her."

Constance actually blushed.

Athos always had this effect on her. His approval fluttered her heart, warmed her to her core - ever since they'd first met, he'd always reminded him of Pascal, her eldest brother, who, some years ago, had passed. Athos looked nothing like Pascal: he had been very tall, and very lean, with dark hair and the same blue eyes with Constance that they had taken from their father. Pascal was a lively man who loved a good brawl, a good laugh, a good life, and got in and out of trouble with terrifying skill. He would have made a terrific Musketeer. And he was kind. He was always so, so kind and Constance still ached when she thought of her brother.

This look in Athos's eyes - and nothing else about him - reminded him of Pascal, and Constance loved it.

But then, around those eyes she noticed how pale Athos was, how there seemed to be darker shades in the shallows of his face since she'd last seen him, and some invisible muscle drawn tight on his brow by an underlying pain, and decided quickly that she should leave him to rest.

Even if they'd shared merely a few sentences since sitting down.

"Well, I better get going," she said, rising, before quickly warning him, "don't get up, Athos; I'm no duchess and you're no comte - well, not anymore, from what I gather. I brought pastries," she grinned, indicating the basket she'd left on the table, covered with a red cloth, "Apple pies. Just don't let d'Artagnan and Porthos get to them - I already left a basket for them. This is yours alone. Honestly, sometimes I imagine those two finding their way into the queen's kitchens and... well, let's hope that never happens." She grinned again, and found Athos smiling broadly, eyes twinkling in amusement at her prattling on.

"Feel better," she said softly.

"Thank you, Madame," returned Athos politely.

And she left with a light step, and left him with a warmer heart.

Notes: I imagine Athos has some serious second-degree burns, for he'd be beyond pain if they were any worse, but beside that, whether there's any medical inconsistency in there, I remain unaware. Kindly ignore them if you find any - I take refuge in fanfiction to escape from research at most times, not to do more of it. :)