By morning, Athos was again too sick to get out of bed. And Aramis' absolute conviction that the level of intensity would diminish in short order proved false. There followed several more days of low grade fever, uncontrollable dry heaves, and the awful tics that made him itch all over. Athos refused any further attempts to render him senseless with poppy and battled through on strength of will alone.
Aramis pointed out that if his iron will could see him through this kind of an ordeal, relapsing was not going to be an issue.
Athos, who knew the siren call of the bottle better than he knew his own name, did not argue, but neither did he take any comfort in Aramis' steadfast faith. He trusted Porthos' observation far more – you got us now, you won't need the bottle – though he was not a hundred percent certain even that would hinder a full-fledged retreat if the devil caught him again.
If it was not the longest fortnight of his life, then this run of back luck ran a close second to the blur of days following the deaths of his brother and wife. While the frequency and strength of the symptoms abated somewhat day by day, they continued to plague him on and off, with varying degrees of potency, for the entirety of those two weeks. His abused innards refused to keep down anything solid for the first week and were very particular about what they accepted even the second week.
By the third week, Athos was contemplating murder. He had never been a man given to lazy pursuits and chafed endlessly at the confinement Aramis refused to lift no matter how often they argued.
Tempers flared and heated words were exchanged, a thing Aramis found quite invigorating but had Athos retreating into an irritated silence from which he would not be coaxed.
Authority had been bred into his bones. From the time he could walk and talk, Athos had been in charge. As the heir, the only person who had not deferred to his wishes had been his father. Even his mother – when his parents had been about, which had not been often – had acquiesced when conflict arose. He had never worn the mantle of power with pleasure as did some among his peers, but he had inherited it at quite a young age, and had learned to wield it as naturally as he breathed.
It made tolerance difficult. Compliance had been easier when moving from the bed to the chamber pot had been the extent of his ability. The arm gave him no trouble at all, now, though the shoulder still required thought before moving it. But Athos was anxious to get back to his morning stretching routine.
Aramis kept saying not yet.
Three days into the third week, Porthos suggested a game of darts. Athos, who just today had been allowed to remove the sling supporting his left arm and use that hand again, growled that he would play only if they used a picture of Aramis as the board.
Aramis promptly sketched a quick and excellent likeness of himself on the wall with a piece of charcoal from the fireplace. "Your dartboard, monsieur." He offered a flourishing bow as he presented his masterpiece.
"Spend much time in front of the mirror do you?"
Aramis twirled the ends of his mustache, doggedly holding onto his temper as he tried to remember he had not been the one huddled feverishly under the covers or retching into a chamber pot endlessly. "Naturalmente," he said blithely, reverting to his mother's native tongue.
Tréville, guessing this third week would be the most difficult, had relieved both Aramis and Porthos of duty. Aramis thought they'd done better trading off. Three grown men in a small, two-room apartment, with one of them going stir-crazy, was one too many.
"Is there any reason we can't go out?" Porthos asked suddenly. "Fresh air might do us all some good."
Athos, who'd stomped over to the window to stare down at the street, turned, a transformed man, eyes alight with eagerness. "Surely walking can't hurt!"
It was the most emotion Aramis had heard in the voice in the entire time he'd known the man. "The stairs will be difficult," he warned. The apartment was on the third floor, it would be a long, daunting trek, especially back up.
Porthos was pulling his coat back on. "The leatherman told me the buckle on Athos' coat is finished. He's not that far, we can go pick it up."
"I will crawl up the stairs if I have to," Athos asserted, turning down the shirt cuffs he had rolled back while he went in search of his boots. He found them under the bed and sat to pull them on, reaching for his sword belt as he rose to stamp into them.
A hand closed over his. "No."
Athos turned his head slowly. "There are a number of parties interested in running me through. I do not go out unarmed."
Athos was not Aramis' first stubborn patient. "Then you don't go out, period. That shoulder is still vulnerable. However, you won't be unarmed, you'll be escorted by two fine musketeers with highly honed skills."
Athos opened his fingers, though he sighed again.
Porthos laughed. "He's getting' almost as good at that as you, Aramis." He collected Athos' hat from a peg on the back of the apartment door and tossed it to him.
"Go on, I'll catch up," Aramis said, when they turned on the landing to wait for him.
"I feel naked," Athos muttered as he and Porthos stepped out the front door of the residence into glaring sunlight. "Do we wait?"
"Fortunately for the rest of the world, ya don' look naked." Porthos headed down the street. "Nah, he'll catch up like he said."
It was a ten minute walk to the street of the leather workers, Aramis caught up to them easily, especially since by Athos' reckoning, they were moving at a snail's pace. And since all attempts on his part to lengthen their strides were met with a deliberate slowing of the pace, he gave up and just enjoyed the fresh air and sunshine.
Monsieur Valle's establishment, having the distinction of the corner lot, was larger than all the others on the street. Much of his custom came from the musketeer garrison and he was quick to abandon other customers to wait on any musketeer who appeared on the premises.
Today he was alone when they ducked under the lintel of the shop door.
"You've come for the jacket? I will get it, monsieurs, a moment only." Valle whisked himself through the rather tattered curtain, reappearing almost immediately caressing the soft suppleness of the leather coat he carried. "This leather was worked by a master craftsman before you had it made into a coat. Someone who does exquisite work. I would know his name if you have it, monsieur."
Athos, who to his own surprise, would have liked to lean against the counter, shrugged. "The leather came into my hands as you see it now." He could not very well tell this man the cow that had provided it had been raised, butchered, and turned into tanned leather all on his estate.
"Too bad, too bad," the wizened Valle said sadly. "I would love to visit and ask about his methods.
"May we see the coat, monsieur," Aramis requested, reaching for it.
The leatherman left off his petting and handed the coat across the counter, crowing with pleasure when Aramis produced the pauldron and laid both the coat and the epaulière on the counter. He proceeded to thread the sleeve through the elbow guard, buckle on the pauldron and with a flourish, hold it up for Athos to try on.
"So you are the new musketeer, monsieur. My congratulations! I have not worked so intricate a design in many a year. These two," he nodded toward Athos' companions, "they ask if I can create in the leather the illusion of endlessly repeating sword grips. It was a challenge, but a delightful one. I am very proud of this piece."
"As you should be," Athos agreed. "It is exquisite work." He slid carefully into the jacket, vigilantly keeping the twinge of pain in his shoulder off his face, though Aramis was behind him.
Porthos winked. "Won't be long now, just a few more days." He stepped forward to adjust the buckle on the inside of the elbow guard, straightened the epaulière and stepped back again. "Well?"
Aramis joined Porthos as they both inspected him. Athos did not crane his neck to look at it, though he could not resist flexing his elbow, then his hand.
"Well? How does it feel?" Porthos made it sound as though the suspense was killing him.
"Strange," Athos admitted, reaching across to touch it. It felt different, perched on his shoulder, than it had lying beneath his hand on the bed.
"It's a bit snug at first, but the leather will stretch as you work in it, 'n wear it in all kinda' weather," Porthos reported sagely. "Won't be long 'fore you won't remember not having it there."
"One does tend to feel a little naked without it after awhile," Aramis added. "Monsieur Valle," he inclined his head in a slight obeisance, "you are the best. Thank you again."
"My thanks as well, monsieur." Athos lifted his hat, offering the same inclination of the chin as Aramis. "I know where to come if I have further need of leather work."
"Reynard." Porthos tipped his hat as well and the trio trooped back out into the street.
Their return was even slower than the departure. Aramis and Porthos sauntered, stopping to look at goods on display outside the shops while Athos leaned against a wall; hailing acquaintances – while Athos leaned against a wall; at one point coming to a standstill to debate the merits of taking one street vs another to get home – while Athos leaned against the wall.
By the time they arrived at the bottom of the stairs up to his apartment, Athos was contemplating complete capitulation. The stairs looked like the Pyrenees.
"I will never live this down, I know." Athos sank down on the second step, elbows resting lightly on his knees. "Is he always right?" he inquired wryly of Porthos.
For some reason Porthos' roar of laughter made the admission easier.
"As annoying as it is to acknowledge, I am not yet up to this."
Aramis put on his saintly face, a look Athos had accused him of practicing before the mirror, as it was seraph personified. "I would rather you not crawl up the stairs, my lo…" he stopped himself as the hat brim rose, a dangerous spark lighting the blue eyes.
Needling the comte with my lording in private was one thing - Athos invariably gave him the evil eye and then ignored him. Continuing it in public, however casually, was unacceptable. Aramis offered the same deferential bow he had essayed Valle. "My apologies, good sir. But I really would rather you not crawl, it would put too much pressure on that shoulder. There is no hurry, take whatever time you need. I'm just going to go up and tidy up a few things." And he disappeared up the long flight of steps.
Porthos sat down beside Athos. "Aramis says you always wanted to be a musketeer, even from a little shaver."
The hat inclined in assent.
Unintimidated by no verbal response, Porthos forged ahead. "What took ya s'long to come around?"
"I must assume he also told you my father would not allow it."
"Yeah, first born and all. Can't go getting yerself shot to pieces, even if there is a spare, huh?"
"Something like that." The de la Fère title had been in the family since Charles VI, passing from eldest son to eldest son. Athos had already made the decision it would end with him.
"Still," Porthos ruminated, "you're what, five and twenty? Six and twenty maybe?"
"What do you want to know?"
"You didn't get your reputation wanderin' the continent, only 'broidered it a bit. Just wonderin' why you haven't been a musketeer for a while already."
"Broidered?" Athos echoed, eyebrows raised.
"You know," Porthos pinched the fingers of his right hand, put out his pinkie, and made up and down motions, "fancy sewin' – 'broiderin'."
"Ahhh." Athos leaned carefully against the wall.
"Did I say it wrong?"
"No, but I am not particularly conversant with the term. I had a fiancé once, who embroidered. I vaguely recall they used to have afternoon tea and 'broidering sessions." His wife had not been fond of the female sport of embroidery. She hadn't been particularly fond of his ex-fiancé, either, when it came down to it. Athos put a hand over his eyes. "Then I married another woman. She was … my heart and soul. I forget everything else I ever wanted to do."
The front door opened and the pretty grisette who lived in the flat across from Athos flounced in. She stopped in her tracks when she saw them sitting on the stairs, eyeing Porthos interestedly as he rose and made her a sweeping bow. "Mademoiselle."
Her attention returned to her still seated neighbor. "Monsieur Athos, are you unwell?" Her piquant features drew together in a frown as she gave him a thorough once over, though in the next instant the frown disappeared and her eyes lit up as she spotted the pauldron. "You did not tell me you are a musketeer!" She clapped her hands excitedly before clasping them beneath her chin. "Oh the other girls at the shop will be so jealous when I tell them my neighbor is a musketeer!" she tittered rapturously.
"My apologies, Mademoiselle Gigi, for not rising to greet you properly. I was attempting to remove a stone from my boot before mounting the stairs." Athos' hands fluttered for a moment at his right boot cuff, unsure how to affect the illusion of the words. He was not used to creating fiction out of thin air. Not because he was honest by nature, rather, because he had never needed to lie. As lord of the manor, no one had ever challenged his right to do whatever he wanted. "Please," he rose and swept off his hat, bowing as prettily as Porthos, "do not let us impede your progress. I am sure you have had a long day and will be wishing to be off your feet, mademoiselle."
Smooth round cheeks dimpled with pleasure as a smile came to flowering fullness. "You are always so kind," she gushed, daintily placing her gloved fingers on the gauntleted wrist he offered to hand her up the stairs. "Such polished manners, one would almost think there was more to you than meets the eye, monsieur Athos."
Only Porthos knew he was gritting his teeth as Athos bowed again and resettled his hat. "I live to serve, mademoiselle." He had no choice, now, but to follow her up the stairs, if only to give credence to his lie. He was sure Porthos was grinning from ear to ear as he brought up the rear.
They left her at her door with more flourishing courtesies and Athos desperately hoping he had redirected her concerns, else he was bound to have her at his own door, inquiring after his health on a daily basis. The sparkling little grisette was looking to move up in society and a musketeer spouse would be a perfect foil for her liveliness.
"We should introduce her to Aramis," Athos muttered as he entered the sanctuary of his own apartment.
"No we should not," Porthos disagreed comfortably. "That girl wants a husband, and I don' mean as in desires one, she's in need 'o one to keep her in line. Aramis is the love 'em and leave 'em kind still. You don't need that livin' next door to you."
"Good point." Athos slumped back against the door. "You washed off your self-portrait." That was the first thing he noticed.
"The exhibition did not open to lauds and laurels." Aramis laughed. "I didn't want the charcoal seeping into the paint either. Why is my name being bandied about?"
"I said we should introduce you to my neightbor. Porthos said that was a bad idea." Athos sniffed appreciatively. "Why are you moving my furniture about?" A fire was crackling merrily on his hearth, though the windows had been thrown wide, and the tang of wood smoke under laid with notes of citrus and cedar scented the air. His home no longer smelled like the musketeer barracks.
The carved wooden screen usually creating a bit of privacy for the chamber pot in the other room had been reassigned to this room in front of the fireplace.
"Firstly because you still smell like my father's still," Aramis said pleasantly, "and secondly, because if you're returning to the garrison tomorrow, you might want to appear slightly less slovenly. To that end, I requested that your landlord provide us with the accouterments to bathe. And Porthos is usually right about these things if you were discussing your across-the-hall-neighbor."
"Tomorrow?" Athos pushed off the door, bewildered by this sudden about-face, all thoughts of Gigi wiped from his mind. He was entirely uncertain, after Aramis' little lesson on how much effort it took just to walk the short distance they'd covered, that he could even manage the walk to and from the barracks.
"This was in the works already," Porthos informed him, "Cap'in has some things you can do sittin' down. Light duty stuff. Every musketeer whose been injured gets rotated back in on light duty." He was laying out lethal looking instruments on the tabletop. "We're detailed to the king next week. He's anxious to meet you."
"Anxious to meet me?"
"Did you know there are birds in Spain who do that same annoying thing you're doing? They're called parrots because they parrot everything you say. Off with the coat." Aramis shucked Athos out of jacket and pauldron and pointed at a chair set atop a sheet spread on the floor. "Sit. You need a shave and a haircut, if you don't mind our saying so. And one of Porthos' many skills is barbering."
Athos sat, though mostly because he was too tired to stand any longer.
Porthos whipped another sheet around his neck, picked up a pair of scissors and began lopping off locks of hair.
Athos let his mind wander as he listened to the rhythmic snip snip snip of the scissors and the symphony of water pouring into a tub. He could feel the heat of both the fire and the cascading water and every tense muscle in his body began to quiver with anticipation.
He did not regret his choice to leave behind his old life for one second, but there were things he infrequently allowed himself to miss. The master suite at the chateau de la Fère was larger than his apartment, though it was not the space he regretted leaving behind. He missed the bathing chamber keenly, and the intimacy of the ancient tester bed in which he'd been born, the way it cradled his body in its softness, though he had not slept in it since Anne's betrayal. That missing was tainted by memories he did not wish to convene and he moved on quickly. He did, he had to admit, still occasionally miss his valet.
He had learned to shave and keep his beard trimmed out of necessity, but he'd realized very quickly there had been a number of things he'd taken for granted. The magnitude of buttons, just for example, that adorned most of his clothing. He'd been dressed and undressed by a valet for so long he'd forgotten both the joy and the agony of buttons.
"Mind you don't fall asleep on me," Porthos warned, tilting Athos' chin with a thumb "or you could wake up with an accidental-like slit throat."
Athos blinked away the brief foray into the not-so-distant past, straightening carefully in the high-backed chair as Porthos expertly restored the line of his beard down the right side his jaw. "I could do this myself."
"Uh huh, and then you really would be wakin' up dead." The razor scraped against the bowl, depositing soap on the edge. "Tilt," Porthos adjured, and began on the left side.
One of the first withdrawal symptoms to afflict Athos yet lingered. Without warning, his hands would suddenly take on the aspect of trembling birch leaves, leaving his fingers nerveless and incapable of grasping anything long after the tremors ceased.
Aramis finished stacking empty buckets outside the front door, though he left one beside the tub and came to sit at the table. "Well, well, I begin to see the comte emerging, or what he must have looked like."
"The comte may rot in hell," Athos said pleasantly. "I would prefer to be looking at Athos of the King's Musketeers when Porthos is done."
"Ahhhhh," Aramis returned drily, "I'm not quite sure if he's decided to come out of hiding yet."
Athos slanted a look across the table.
"Chin up," Porthos directed.
"Turns out he's a bit shy, but I think perhaps soon, he'll be comfortable enough to stick around for awhile."
"You are wisdom personified," Athos retorted, mindful of the razor gliding down his throat.
Aramis only grinned.
Porthos finished off his handiwork with a warm, damp towel, wiping away the remnants of soap before carefully removing the sheet around Athos' neck to shake the snippings onto the sheet on the floor.
"Soap and towels are on the chair in front of the fire." Aramis nodded toward the privacy screen. "No need to keep either wound dry anymore, soak as long as you like."
It had not occurred to Athos that the landlord of this tenement house he now owned might contrive such bliss. He had assumed that like other commoners, if he wanted a bath he would have to take himself off to one of the public bath houses.
The pot of soap smelled like the apartment – and Aramis – layers of spicy cedar and a hint of Spanish oranges. The tub was surprisingly large enough to sink shoulder deep beneath the water, and the heat, one of those ineffable luxuries he missed dearly, was sheer bliss. He could not remember a time when a bath had been so appreciated and thought this just might be the closest he would ever get to heaven.
And then, just when the water was beginning to cool, behind him a pair of hands on his shoulders eased him forward.
"Close your eyes," Aramis instructed, only after Porthos had poured a bucket of warm water over Athos' head.
"Better keep 'em closed," Porthos followed up laughingly as a concert of soap and hands in Athos' newly shorn hair became symphonic as well.
"You are wasted in the musketeers, Aramis. You should hire out as a valet. You'd have every lord in the kingdom vying for your services."
"I'm quite happy with my current occupation. Though I will keep this in mind should I have need of funds if I live to retire. Porthos will tell you, you only merit this treatment if you've been at death's door."
"In reality, 's usually me doing this for him, since Aramis is usually the one getting' im'self 'urt."
"Well, there is some truth in that," Aramis agreed, "lean forward and keep your eyes closed. I've decided to hand that particular distinction over to you. You're welcome to the achievement of the being the most prone to being wounded."
Athos' drowned response sounded a bit like a deluged dog barking. He did not try again until he was dressing in clean clothes before the warmth of the fire. "No thank you on the pass off, you can keep that distinction. In two years of drinking, whoring and fighting my way across the continent," he said, not exactly mimicking the captain, though Aramis caught the reference immediately, "not one individual managed to even mar my clothing." If there had been very little whoring after an initial attempt or two had failed, that was not something he felt obligated to share.
"I'd heard that rumor," Aramis murmured. "And wondered if you were letting this happen on purpose, to deflect suspicion."
"No." Athos sat himself down again. As wonderful as the bath had been, he was still worn out from the trip to Valle's. He took the towel Aramis handed him and sopped the water from his hair, though it would take a while to dry, thick as it was. "About tomorrow," he began, only to be interrupted.
"Your horse is eating 'is eating its head off in the stables." Porthos was emptying the tub water out the window, garnering a great number of squeals and curses from below. "Aramis had already agreed to tomorrow's outing, despite the fact he don't think you're ready. We were plannin' to ride over and get ya anyway. I think one of us is going to kill somebody if we don't get out of here."
It never failed to amuse when Porthos' diction became as clipped and precise as any patented lord.
"More to the point, Porthos is worried you're going to kill me if I don't let you out of here."
Athos smiled, his lips curving easily and of their own accord beneath his newly trimmed mustache. "Do you know, I used to think I was quite well off." He paused, gaze dropping to the table, because when it came right down to it, he was still very shy about revealing feelings of any kind. "I did not know my own poverty."