Broken Ribs (3)

"How does he fare?"

"Passed out," Porthos grunted, manoeuvring Aramis's limp form out of the saddle into the Captain's arms, "just before we reached the city gates."

"And Athos?"

"-is fine," Athos grunted, leveraging himself out of the saddle with little of his usual grace. He had to hold on to the pommel as his feet met solid ground. The Captain spared him a look that did nothing to reassure him, but said nothing as he helped Porthos take Aramis's dead weight.

"d'Artagnan?" Athos inquired as he fell into step with them to the infirmary.

"Lemay's just done with him. He took a bad beating, but Lemay says he'll recover."

"Captain-"

Athos sneaked his hand around Tréville's wrist and stilled the other men's advance momentarily. "Is the boy shot?"

Tréville frowned at the question. "Clipped. Right arm. Not deep."

Athos's expression turned unreadable as he pursed his lips, and his hand released Tréville's arm.

"'ey - later, yeah?"

Chastised by Porthos's reminder, they resumed their trek towards the infirmary.

"Captain," Doctor Lemay greeted them, "Here, lay him down." One of the three people in the dim-lit, narrow infirmary, he advanced hurriedly upon seeing their arrival, gesturing towards one of the empty cots; Porthos and Tréville followed his direction to carefully lever Aramis onto it. "What ails him?"

"'is head," Porthos supplied distractedly. Calm as he appeared, his worry was palpable; Lemay hummed, having already taken a small dagger to cut away the sodden bandage wrapped around Aramis's head. Under the white cloth, Aramis's eyes were resolutely closed.

From the doorway, Athos watched the activity silently. The room already seemed crowded, even though there were only two patients: Aramis, who was now being manhandled as Porthos and the captain divested him of his wet leathers - and d'Artagnan.

On the cot farthest from the door, the boy lay still under a thin blanket, his head turned away from the room, towards the sole window in the short wall. The Musketeer Establet, the only medically-trained person in the regiment, was rubbing some kind of ointment into his shoulder.

"D'Artagnan?"

Surprised momentarily by the question, Lemay looked up at Athos without stopping his administrations. He glanced briefly over his shoulder towards the other bed.

"Shall be fine with a few day's rest. The musket wound isn't serious; so long as it isn't infected, it'll heal in a few days. The bruising from the beating he received, however, will be painful."

"He is unconscious?"

Athos still had not stepped inside, observing the proceedings with a keen eye instead.

"I have rendered him so," Lemay returned, giving him a slight smile before reaching for a small jar for Aramis's wound. "I have given him something to assist with the pain. He shall sleep for a while." He leaned over to peer at the jagged cut over Aramis's brow, Porthos now pulling the blanket up over him. Tréville had stepped aside at the foot of the bed.

In the doorway, with a sigh of relief only loud enough for himself, Athos closed his eyes, and sagged against the doorframe.

"Athos?"

He looked up at the captain's inquiring tone; found the steely gaze fixed upon him.

"I shall be in my room."

Without waiting for a response or for permission, he turned on his heel and started for the spare room he'd claimed in the barracks, for days like this when he'd needed to lodge in the garrison instead of his rooms in Rue Férou.

The rain was still coming down, no longer ferocious, but calm, as if simply determined to exhaust its supply in a given time. Athos crossed the yard and entered the barracks, walking down the long, empty corridor, and entered the room at the far end, just two doors down from Aramis's room.

He closed the small, wooden door, and for a moment, simply stood there, relishing the quiet and the solitude. It was all he could do to not sag back against the door and simply slide down, preferably never to get up again.

But he sighed again, grimacing and cradling his chest as he no longer had to stand upright. Pursing his lips, he breathed out carefully through his nose, now allowing himself to acknowledge the way his head was swimming. Exhaustion was taking over him. With fragile steps, he walked to the bed, pulled the chair beside it by the window and sat, and with painfully slow movements, proceeded to undress.

His sole objective had become to lie down.

He was startled out of his daze by a loud rap on the door, the distinct force of it signalling that it could only be Porthos. Athos opened his mouth to call out but the door opened and Porthos appeared without waiting for a response.

"Where 'ave you disappeared to?"

The question was not a greeting but an angry demand; his huge frame cut an intimidating figure, cloaked and hatted as he was, hands on his hips and frowning deeply. Athos made a vague gesture towards the room in lieu of a verbal reply.

"You're wounded," Porthos emphasized, "Why didn't you wait for your turn, 'ave Lemay take a look at you?"

"I am well," Athos murmured, not finding to energy to speak up, "I want only to sleep." He plonked an elbow onto the windowsill and ran a hand down his face. It only served to exasperate Porthos more.

"You're not well - you bloody collapsed when we found you! Fine," he huffed abruptly, as if coming to the realization that it was futile to argue, "if you're not comin', I'll tell the doctor to come pay you a visit-"

"Porthos. That is not necessary." With effort, Athos raised his head to look at him. "How is Aramis?"

"e's concussed." The change of subject chased away the anger from his face. "Lemay says he'll be fine. So will the lad." He paused, then he finally walked in; he closed the door, removed his hat and threw it onto the cabinet by the wall.

"What the 'ell happened out there, Athos? You asked the Cap'n if d'Artagnan was shot. How did you know?"

"Because Aramis has shot him," Athos replied languidly.

"'e what now?"

"He'd received a blow to the head. I couldn't make the shot, but I thought, even concussed, at that distance, Aramis had a better chance of making it than I."

"An' 'e shot d'Artagnan?"

Athos nodded.

Porthos let out a long, slow breath, then ran his hand through his head. "Right." He looked at Athos squarely in the eye. "He's not gonna like that."

Athos couldn't help but snort, but regretted it immediately as the pain in his chest flared again. "Which one of them - Aramis or d'Artagnan?"

"Well I can't imagine either of 'em bein' too 'appy about it!"

He shook his head, mumbling, then took off his gloves and nodded at Athos. "Those ribs bothering you?"

No longer having the energy to put it off, Athos nodded. Porthos rose and approached, and pulling Athos to his feet, wordlessly began to help him remove his shirt. As the garment was discarded, Porthos whistled.

"Now ain't that a sight."

Flat as the delivery was, the anger in his gaze as it roamed over the already-formed bruises across Athos's torso was impossible to miss. Athos closed his eyes again, a remote part of him wondering why he was still on his feet, distantly recognizing that his legs were threatening to turn to water and simply stop supporting him any moment. He should sit, or better yet lie down, but logical thought was insidiously smothered by the steadily growing fog in his mind, and he remained upright.

"My friend, if you could..." he gestured wearily towards the cabinet. Nodding, Porthos pulled the top drawer and retrieved a clean shirt, but instead of giving it to Athos he left it draped over the chair and, with the slickness of a cat, snuck up to his friend.

"You broke any of those?"

Before Athos knew what was happening, Porthos was in his personal space, restraining him with one hand strategically placed at the back of his neck, and the other running carefully over his ribcage, feeling for breaks. With tightly pursed lips and an exasperated eye-roll, Athos suffered himself to be thus checked.

He hissed and nearly bucked when Porthos's hand passed over a particular spot.

"Whoa- easy."

He shifted his hand to Athos's arm in a supporting hold. "Sorry." He waited as the swordsman tried to catch his breath. "I'm gonna see if there are any more of 'em, alrigh'?"

At Athos's nod the examination continued, and when it was completed, a second painful spot had been discovered. Porthos was mumbling incomprehensible, though not too-hard-to-guess- things under his breath. "Wait 'ere," he said abruptly before turning and leaving the room without another word.

Athos trailed his departure with somewhat disoriented eyes.

"Where would I go?" he muttered to himself, suddenly finding himself alone in the room. Feeling the chill in the air, bare as he was, instead of doing the sensible thing, which was pulling a blanket over his back, he walked to the fireplace and painfully set about lighting a fire.

His mind had gone blank now, with worries about Aramis and d'Artagnan assuaged, and thoughts silenced as exhaustion took over him stealthily, and he went about the chore not quite conscious of the way he winced, hissed, or grimaced every time he bent and twisted around.

Footsteps were heard seconds before the door burst open and Porthos entered once again, this time with a small basket under his arm. He stopped in his tracks and looked on with disbelieving eyes when he spotted Athos labouring by the hearth.

"When I said 'wait 'ere' I did suspect you might be foolish enough to wander off, but do you really need to be told not to bend over and haul coal over a fire when you got broken bones?"

"Porthos, really - this is -"

"Ey, it is necessary," Porthos swiftly cut him off. His expression darkened. "Now, d'Artagnan an' Aramis are in the infirmary, an' they both got checked over by Lemay and they got Establet sittin' with them. If I know you at all you're gonna try to walk this off, an' I know you, Athos," he huffed, "an' that's why this is necessary. Now. Put that shovel down and come 'ere. Those ribs need bindin' an' I brought some o' that poultice Aramis uses for them bruises you got."

Athos looked at the shovel in his hand for a moment as if contemplating what other practical use it might serve under the circumstances, but then with a twirl on his heel, he turned and left it leaning against the wall, before marching over to Porthos complyingly. He held himself stiffly, as if resigned to carry out an order he would much prefer to pass over.

"That bastard really did a number on you, didn't he?" Porthos muttered angrily while smearing the thick, vaguely-odorous poultice liberally over the dark patches covering Athos's side. Athos's eyes had slipped shut, though he held himself tense and stiff under Porthos's hands, the stiffness being entirely due to pain this time.

"You haven't seen the size of that man, Porthos," he muttered tiredly without opening his eyes.

"Hm." Porthos grunted. "Would 'ave loved to 'ave a go at 'im meself." He waved off the grateful look Athos shot him after the binding was done and helped the gingerly-moving man put on the clean shirt. The task completed, he gave Athos an assessing look, as if suspecting there might be other injuries Athos might have somehow managed to hide, and then his gaze rose to the swordsman's face and stopped there, staring at him with a solemn intensity.

"You good?"

Athos smiled.

"I am well, my friend. Thank you."

"Right." Satisfied, Porthos picked up the basket he'd brought. "I'll see Serge 'bout dinner, then go sit with the others a bit. I'll 'ave somethin' sent to you," he added while walking to the door.

"I wouldn't mind wine," Athos sighed, looking about the room, "I seem to have run out."

"You got it. With food."

So Porthos left, and as the door closed and Athos sank on the bed, his ribs were once again steady, his heart was warm and his lips were twitching.