This is something I didn't intend to write for Whumptober. It began as an aimless Sunday hand-stretching - hence the comfortably well-trodden path (do excuse me; apparently whumping one's favourite over and over again is a pleasure that never diminishes)- but it turned into something that nicely covered a prompt. It's a break from the "Showdown" thread, but worry not, it will be continued. Happy 2020.
As usual, almost no plot.
(A shoutout to gogirl212, because I may have re-read 'This Is A Rescue' last week and it may have put me in the mood.)
Exhaustion
He managed not to collapse.
D'Artagnan reached him first, coming to a skidding halt mere inches away from him, pausing for only a heartbeat before drawing him roughly in his embrace. Only then did his knees give in, softly, as he blinked in innocent incomprehension, chin hooked over d'Artagnan's shoulder, gazing out.
Then they were on the ground, and Aramis and Porthos were there, and their hands were on him, and Athos exhaled softly and closed his eyes.
/
He was vaguely aware of being jostled, carried, hurried; a transition from outdoors to indoors and being placed on a cot. Constant mutterings around him, muffled and indistinct as if his ears were filled with cotton; it washed over him, warming, like a hot bath after a winter patrol. He might have shivered, but an arm definitely tightened around him. That's how he realized that he was sat upright, leaning his shoulder against something sturdy, something warm, something that smelled familiar, of leather and Porthos and gunpowder. Porthos.
He tried to drag his hand up to pat at his friend's chest in greeting, but his arm refused to compile. He didn't mind.
He jerked back in surprise when something entered into his limited line of vision, looming over his face, but Porthos steadied him.
"Sorry - it's only wine, Athos, a bit of wine."
Oh.
Then the cup on his lips and warm, spiced wine; his eyes closed and he was lost in the sweet sensation.
"- you hear me? Mon cher-"
"'ey, you with us? Aramis is-"
A hand gently squeezing his.
"How is he?"
Tréville.
He hissed when he was woken rudely, his head sliding back on Porthos's arm as his breath stuttered, the view of the ceiling blurring as tears rushed to his eyes and Aramis was apologizing, profusely, patting his leg soothingly. There was a dip in the mattress and a hand on his cheek and his head was turned and suddenly Aramis was there, his features sharp, so in focus, so near and real, Athos frowned, not understanding how this came to happen.
"I know you need rest. But your feet have to be cleaned. Athos, are you following me?"
His feet -
No, don't touch his feet - don't touch his feet-
"I'll be quick."
Then he was gone and Porthos was moving him, and his shirt was gone and there were angry voices and he was shivering again, but Porthos stayed. Porthos never changed. Porthos - His breath quickened again when a cold hand slid over his arm, and he looked over and saw a pair of dark eyes glinting with worry.
"I'll just clean these, Athos, alright?"
Clean what?
He watched as d'Artagnan procured a cloth and moved closer, brow dipped in concentration as he took hold of his arm. There was a sharp sting and Athos understood: the backs of his arms, his shoulders, elbows, knees, legs - points of contact when he'd been dragged through the ground. His jaw tightened. That, he would not forget. He stiffened in his friend's grip and Porthos's beard scratched against his forehead.
His gaze fleeted down when a hand gently squeezed his ankle.
"This will sting," Aramis cautioned. His eyes were soft but determined, though he still waited for Athos's consent; Athos blinked in a way that he hoped relayed his permission, but then let his eyes close, unable to suppress the trepidation he felt.
"'old on now," Porthos rumbled, arm tightening around him again.
But there was no holding on. There was fire and agony and loud voices and more hands, pressing down on his legs and Porthos's arms pinning him - walking on hot coals, a litter of splinters and shards of broken glass - time slipped from him but agony did not.
They wouldn't let him go.
"It's over, it's done-"
He lay sprawled over Porthos, panting, helpless, spasming as he rode out the waves, barely conscious of the cloth wiping his face, the glass put to his lips and the sips of water, and his own voice straining in the background. Enough. Enough- he wanted no more of this, he was done, he was done he was leaving-
"Shh, hush now - hush. Easy, mon frére. We'll let you sleep in a bit, I promise, just 'old on a little more, alrigh'?"
Porthos-
"I promise, Athos, I promise."
Something touched his feet again - Aramis drying them - but they were still on fire.
Just a little more...
He did not notice that d'Artagnan had stopped his own administrations. They could see he couldn't handle any more: he was pushed beyond limits, he wouldn't endure.
Aramis - please stop-
...Porthos is speaking. He's reminiscing of that time when they'd chased a slippery robber through a glazier's workshop. It makes Athos abruptly want to laugh because he'd forgotten about that; that absolute disaster of a chase - a jewel thief, working several jewelers' shops before getting caught. It had been a single young lad, no more, but he'd had an impressive sprint - his fingers dug into someone's flesh as he squirmed at the relentless pain, but hands on his shins did not let him pull his foot away -"I swear it took three days to clean the glass from me hair. I'd wager I still got the scars on me scalp."
"Well, there's no way we'll ever know that," Aramis put pleasantly, "unless you decide to shave your head."
"Nah, don' even suggest that."
"What did you do - charge into a window?"
"Hm. An unfitted one, standin' on the ground."
"You crashed into a wall through an unfitted window glass? Porthos!"
"What? I'd slipped. Athos 'adn' laughed, 'ad you?"
He had no strength to reply. He couldn't remember- a hand, softer and unsure, gently caressed his brow.
"That's because Athos doesn't laugh," d'Artagnan murmured with sorrow.
Athos flinched again, moaning, and was shushed again.
"You close to finishin' that?"
"I need to be thorough-"
Athos's vision abruptly greyed out as something long and sharp was pulled out of his heel, a wave of nausea slamming into him with terrible speed - he slumped over with a whimper, saved only by Porthos's reflexes. He was panting again, panting as if he'd run for miles, shaking and sweating; he felt sobs building at the back of his throat, unable to take this anymore - be done with it, he kept pleading, be done with it, please, enough-
The cloth was wiping his face again, wiping tears and sweat, and a soft voice was murmuring comforting nonsense: it's alrigh', it's done; 'e's just wrappin' 'em now-
It didn't matter. Athos was done.
He simply let his head rest on Porthos's chest, closed his eyes and let the darkness to take him away.
/
"Athos."
No- no-
"I'm sorry - I'm really sorry, but you need to stay awake a little longer. Hey. I'm sorry, brother, really - but just until you eat something, alright?"
"..let me...let me.." Athos wasn't sure if he could be heard, but it hardly mattered as he choked on his next words - please let me sleep, just let me be-
"Good God - Athos-" d'Artagnan's voice faltered "- Aramis, surely we don't have to-"
A muttered curse and voices arguing and sleep pulling him down-
"Hey."
Let me be. I beg of you...
"I know you're awake. Barely," Porthos chuckled quietly, "but awake."
Awake - Porthos, how long? How long - how long had he been gone, how long had he endured, how long since they'd arrived here? How long 'till they'd let him rest?
"Easy, brother. You're gonna be alrigh'. I made you a promise, didn' I? I promised we'd let you sleep. But I know you can 'old on for a few more minutes. D'Artagnan's got somethin' warm for you now. Can you open your eyes? Come on, Athos, there you go. Eat a little, and Aramis'll let you rest, eh?"
He was vaguely aware he was being spoken to like a child, but-
"It's for your own good, mon cher ami."
Athos knew that.
He sensed the tension in the air, though he couldn't catch it, let alone grapple with it; instead he tried to reach for Aramis, not knowing if he'd managed to relay his intent. Aramis immediately covered his hand with his own, clutching it like a lifeline, and Athos's mouth twitched.
"You are more awake than I thought."
With relief in his voice, d'Artagnan slid a tray over the blanket on his legs, topped with soup and bread, and looked at him expectantly.
"Try a spoon, Athos. The sooner you begin, the sooner you can rest."
True.
He could feel his friends' collective anticipation as, with supreme effort, he dragged his hand forward, watching his clumsy fingers stumble over as if drunk, brow furrowing as he forced himself to concentrate. Grip the spoon - hold it firm - he couldn't. D'Artangnan's hand gently wrapped itself around his and steadied it without a word, and Athos allowed him to guide his hand to his mouth. One.
It went down easily enough. Two.
Three swallows. It was d'Artagnan doing all the work, there was no use pretending.
Between the third and the fourth, whatever little strength Athos had ebbed way, and d'Artagnan gently bore the weight of his lifeless hand.
/
"I don't want to wake him again, Aramis. We've pushed him too far."
"I still have to clean his back and arms."
"Not now. He can't take anymore righ' now; we gotta let him rest."
"I can work while he sleeps. There are too many open wounds, Porthos; there is risk of infection-"
"Yeah, but that risk's always there. 'alf an hour won' make a difference, 'Mis. We'll let 'im rest, recover 'is strength."
"We should lay him down. Here, let me-"
"No, I'm good."
Aramis sighed deeply as his shoulders dropped, one hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. He watched with burning eyes as d'Artagnan helped arrange Athos more comfortably against Porthos's chest, his two best friends gentler than he'd ever seen them as they cared for their wounded fourth.
When they settled, the tableau Aramis saw wasn't a heart-warming one. It made his fingers clench, caused his vision to blur, his mouth to sour - he sharply turned and marched to the table against the wall, dipping his hands into the basin and beginning to scrub furiously. The man who'd done this to Athos had not gotten away, but he, Aramis, had to keep causing pain just the same - if only for a short while. He wanted it done. He wanted this part to be over, quickly and without delay - because yes, there was risk of infection, but also because the longer they delayed, the longer he had to sit with what he'd always had to do: cause more pain before he could soothe. He needed to do his part - needed to fix Athos, to clean those wounds - the sooner you begin, the sooner it is done - why wouldn't they think the same applied to the care of Athos's wounds too?
Aramis slowed, and stopped.
Taking his hands out of the water, he stared at them for a moment, noting how they trembled.
He was being unreasonable. He was... His nerves were flayed. He closed his eyes and pressed two fingers on them, willing them to stop burning. They were exhausted. They were all exhausted - of course Athos needed the rest. Half an hour would make little difference; if infection was to set in, it would already have set in. A little rest, and Athos would recover some strength to endure the rest of what Aramis had to do more easily.
The same went for all of them.
Drying his hands on a towel, he walked over to his friends, sunk into his chair and drew it closer to the bed. His hand moved out of his own accord to rest on Athos's ankle, trying to suppress the anger that threatened to rise again. He had to remind himself that the man responsible would hang.
Porthos's hand landing on his shoulder doused the flame like a bucket of water. Aramis hung his head, exhaling deeply, feeling drained.
Yes.. they could all do with a little rest.
They settled, and no one moved for a long time.