As promised, over the course of the first long day awake, earth finally returned to its proper orbit around the sun as Copernicus - and God before him - had ordained, and the vertiginous room eventually settled.
Athos did not.
He woke, the third bright morning of wakefulness, to a long day stretching ahead with no end in sight. He had slept himself out, but between the shoulder and the arm and the fever causing places to ache he had never realized could ache before, the comte was not in a good mood. Neither was he an exemplary patient.
During the two days Athos had slept, Porthos had made a list of his books and scouted out the nearest book sellers to inquire what else a man who read – these kinds of books – might like to read. He'd bargained well and brought back a number of well-loved tomes if their covers were anything to go by.
Athos did not want to read, nor did he want to be read to. Porthos offered cards. Athos displayed no enthusiasm. Nor was he interested in games of chance. Neither would he touch the invalid food Serge was sending over with the nursing staff.
Aramis threw up his hands, commiserated with Porthos over their restive patient, and headed back to garrison duty. Porthos picked a book at random, tipped the chair back against the wall in the bed chamber and cracked the book's covers. His only movement over the next several hours was to turn pages and an inconsistent tapping of his foot on the floor.
Athos spent the long morning attempting to ignore the incessant tapping and trying to keep his mind as blank as possible. He did not want to think about why he was doing this, nor the list of things Aramis had again ticked off that were going to happen over the next several days. He especially did not want to think about the fact that he had trapped himself inside these four walls for the foreseeable future.
Lying on his right side made it difficult to keep that arm elevated, which, as soon as it sank below the level of his heart, began to throb unbearably. He could actually lie on his left side, the heavy bandaging supporting the wound enough to make it tolerable, but not for any length of time. And so he spent most of the day lying flat on his back staring alternately at the ceiling or the square of light that was the waist-high window, fruitlessly trying to find a comfortable position.
Porthos finished his book, the thud of the closing covers followed by the thud of the chair legs hitting the floor. He offered food.
Nothing tasted right, nor did food of any kind go down easily. Athos refused.
Porthos refilled the water pitcher on the little table and then the glass. His patient ignored that as well.
"How 'bout chess? Brought my set over."
Athos agreed listlessly. "Was it good?"
"What?" Porthos was busily moving bottles and bandaging to the windowsill so they could use the small table to set up the board. The pitcher and water glass he left on the floor by the head of the bed within easy reach.
"Your book."
Porthos shrugged. "Nothing spectacular, though there were some racy bits to liven it up here 'n there."
"What kind of book was it?"
Porthos launched into a description of a tale of a Spanish lord who very much resembled Aramis if Porthos' retelling was in any way accurate. He kept it brief though, and finished as he set the last white pawn in its space, "Nothing you'd be interested in, I guess, but it passed the time well enough for me." He turned the board so the black was to Athos, who always played black, and moved a white pawn out a space.
"Where did you learn to play?" Athos asked a few minutes into the game. His concentration was poor, at best. He might mount a defense against Porthos' strategy, who was an excellent opponent, but generating a diabolical offense was not within his purview.
"Nights in the Court. We'd go steal ourselves fancy clothes off the washer women's lines and pretend to be the fellas used to promenade in the Marais district along the Place Royale." Porthos laughed at the memory. "Pro'bly the most innocuous thing we ever did."
"The board must have a story," Athos remarked, countering a rook's sideways move against his queen with one of his lowly pawns. Every knight was different, every pawn diverse. Only the black set of the king and queen matched, every other piece was singular, some very plain, others ornately and stunningly detailed.
Porthos reached across the board to caress one of the black pieces, the finely-carved detail in the mane and tail following the sweeping backward motion of the rearing horse. "This here knight I got off a table in the Rue St. Jacques at a little café that has the best croissants. I'd scout around 'til I found a set I really liked and then filch a piece or two. I like the black pieces best." His eyes touched each piece on the board with a sort of loving reverence, before lifting to Athos' amused gaze. "Couldn't very well pinch a whole set, that woulda set the watch on the look out. But nobody misses a piece here or there when the board's set aside for the day. Took me almost six months, but I was real proud of it by the time I'd got all the pieces. The board was bit harder."
"I can imagine." Athos moved the knight Porthos had touched to counter a cagey bishop threatening his king. "Too big to fit easily inside a jacket."
"Which is why I didn't even try pinching it all secret like. I walked into the café and told 'em I'd been charged with taking all the local boards to a marble dealer for cleaning."
"And they bought the story?"
"Well, I had three others under 'm arm already, but that were the one I wanted. When I got my hands on it, I polished up the others and took 'em back. Didn't need but one. And then I made sure not to be in the vicinity of the café I took the board from 'til I was growed a bit and changed 'm clothes."
Porthos' dilatory humor was rewarded with the tiniest glimmer of a smile in the fever-bright eyes, though Athos continued to play without any of the finesse he normally brought to a game.
"Certainly makes it unique," Athos commented, running his queen back to safety. Even in his semi-dazed state, he recognized the musketeer was sharing a rare bit of his upbringing. The big warrior seldom discoursed on the subject, though it was clear he was not the least bit ashamed of how he had grown up. "I probably wouldn't be struck by lightening for the sin of playing the white pieces if you prefer black as well. Remind me next time."
Porthos shrugged. "Don't matter too much to me which side I play." He won handily and did not offer to play again. Aramis had prepped him, as well, on the various things that could and would go wrong through this course of drying out their new friend.
Athos was no longer lying half propped among a mound of pillows. A third of them were on the floor, another mangled between his hands, and the covers were twisted around his bare feet. He was incapable of lying still.
"How can I help?" Porthos asked quietly, setting the board aside to lean forward on the hard seat of the chair.
"Shoot me. No, give me my pistol and let me do it myself. No use leaving that on your conscience."
Without a word, Porthos got up, retrieved the pistol from the other room, loaded it meticulously and handed it over.
That prompted the small but genuine half-smile Athos' lips had begun to learn. "You are a true friend."
"We're tryin' to be, but you don't always make it easy."
Athos laid the lethal weapon carefully among the purloined knights and pawns on Aramis' small table. "It has not been my intent. I am sorry I can't seem to be even a decent friend."
"We know that, and that last part's just crazy talk. No one expects you to be all smiles and sunshine, but you got to cut us some slack as well. You're so close with your feelin's we're guessing which way to jump most of the time. So when we get it wrong, you need to let us know. It don't have to be all mannerly, one 'o them famous looks 'o yours usually does the trick." Porthos paused briefly before adding with a gentleness that did not match his exterior, "When you shut us out, there ain't nothing we can do."
Athos' lips twitched again and he slanted one of those 'famous' looks at his friend. "You are a fount of wisdom, Porthos."
The warrior ducked his head shyly, pleased by the not-altogether-facetious compliment. "Gettin' quite fond of you, too," he said, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.
Pinon had never been a towering fortress of love and companionship. Having experienced little of either, especially among his own gender, Athos did not quite know what to do with this unexpected camaraderie he'd stumbled upon.
"I …" he began, then shook his head, making the room swim again. He slammed his eyelids shut, clutching the pillow to his chest like an anchoring weight. "I think I should probably try to sleep."
"Aramis left a bottle of poppy for pain. It would put you to sleep again."
"And prolong the battle. I think not."
"Smart. Hard," Porthos added, as he rose. "But smart."
Athos swallowed the last remnants of his pride. "Will you remove the rest of these pillows for me? I cannot manage it without considerable twisting."
Porthos, without a word, slipped an arm behind Athos, ignoring the sharply drawn breath, and rearranged the pillows along the wall side of the bed, then plumping the one beneath the injured man's head before easing him back down flat. For a moment, he remained bent over, fists resting on either side of the patient again, as he looked down at him.
"Don't even think about kissing me," Athos warned, trying hard not to squirm under the close scrutiny.
"You're not my type." Porthos grinned easily. "I prefer 'em dark-eyed an' curvy." Though he did swoop down and touch the hot forehead with his lips, murmuring a prayer he'd heard often enough from Aramis to know by heart. "Nothing that suffers can pass without merit in the sight of God."
Athos closed his eyes. These musketeers 'saw' way too much and he had not a clue how to deal with their magnanimity. They did not pick at his internal wounds, only reminded him now and again that they would listen without judgment should he chose to unburden himself at any time. It was humbling and terrifying at the same time.
Porthos left the room without a sound. For all his height and weight, he moved with the stealth of a big cat hunting prey.
Athos drifted off to sleep as much from depression as the physical toll of the infection and wounds.
When he woke again, it was dark. A single candle, set in the windowsill, illuminated the pauldron resting beside it. He rose very carefully, since every limb trembled with a combination of disuse, fever and withdrawal, found the emptied chamber pot set out close to the bed, and when he was done, retrieved that bit of leather. It went back to bed with him.
He slept again, and his dreams were easier, though anxiety stalked the perimeter like a watchdog intent on pouncing at the first sign of weakness.