A/N: Sorry for the time it has taken, guys. Dealing with my own tooth pain over the last few weeks doesn't make for easy writing but I HAVE seen a dentist unlike our friend Aramis and I am on the mend and feeling much better. Thank you all so much for the responses you gave me for my first try at the Musketeers. I really appreciated each and every review. More than you know. Hope you enjoy the next instalment. Any mistakes you find in here are my fault. I have tried to edit as best as I could.
Chapter 2. To The Court.
"d'Artagnan!"
The Gascon bolted upright at the sound of his name being called. It took a second for his mind to catch up. He glanced around the room, orientating himself with his surroundings. He was in his room ... at Constance's home; not at his father's farm. He could still smell the fresh country air as it took a few moments for the memories to fade back to reality. It had been a pleasant dream for once, one that didn't end in that horrible rainy night, his father dead in his arms. The good dreams were rare. He sighed, running a hand over his face.
"d'Artagnan! Get out here!"
d'Artagnan tensed, frowning at the urgency in Constance's voice. He threw the covers away from his legs and hopped out of bed, almost tripping over his boots that he had left beside his bed. He grabbed his pistol and sword from where he had left them sitting on a chair against the wall. The pistol was loaded, always ready. He'd cleaned it twice earlier that night as well. Something Aramis was trying to instill in him - if you looked after your weapon it would look after you.
Tearing open his bedroom door, d'Artagnan skidded to a stop on his stocking covered feet with his pistol in one hand and his sword in the other. The trouble he found in the main room was nothing he had expected.
d'Artagnan lowered his pistol but didn't release his hold ... not yet. "Athos?" He was confused as to why his friend was at the house at such a late hour. "What's wrong?" He looked around the room, noticing for the first time that although it had been her voice calling his name, Constance was nowhere to be seen.
"I was just coming to get you," Athos told him. "We have a ... situation."
"What kind of a situation?" d'Artagnan asked as he followed his friend to the front door.
Athos didn't need to answer, not when his own ears picked up the sound of someone violently retching. As he reached the door, d'Artagnan brought his hand up to cover his nose. The smell was awful but as he stepped out through the front door the sight that greeted him was even worse.
Aramis was on his hands and knees, a mess of meagre stomach contents in front of him in the dirt. His stomach seemed to still be suffering from spasms, making the marksman painfully dry heave. Considering the Musketeer's lack of appetite lately? d'Artagnan was surprised that he'd had anything to bring up at all.
Porthos was there, steadfast in support of his friend as he stopped him from face-planting in his own vomit. Constance was on the other side of Aramis, rubbing soothing circles on his back. She wore the same worried expression that graced Porthos and Athos' face. In fact he was pretty sure his own expression matched theirs. He turned a confused gaze to Athos who was standing there, watching or waiting for Aramis to get a hold of himself. "What happened? Is it poison? Is he sick?" he asked. His mind reeled, different scenarios playing out. What could have possibly happened to bring his friends to Constance's door in this fashion? What could have possibly happened to have Aramis in such a terrible condition? Was it an attack? Was there danger lurking in the shadows?
"He has a toothache," Athos stated dryly, meeting d'Artagnan's gaze with a look mixed with exasperation and worry. "I believe it's become infected and made him ill."
d'Artagnan's eyes widened. He looked down at the sickly musketeer. The heaving seemed to have abated a little. He looked washed out, pale and flushed. He looked like a mess. "Of all the stupid, stubborn..." If he didn't look so awful, d'Artagnan might have strangled him. Aramis had promised him that he wouldn't allow it to get so bad.
Aramis lifted his head, taking slow and easy breaths. He was seeking control that wasn't within his grasp in that moment. Porthos' hand was still wrapped tightly around his friend's upper arm, his eyes not leaving the smaller musketeer.
"Do you think you can make it into the house?" Constance asked, ducking low to try and catch Aramis' eyes.
Aramis took another slow and controlled breath and then nodded. "Y-Yes." He glanced at Porthos, acknowledging without a word that he was ready to move. Porthos stood, lifting a shaky and spent Aramis with him.
"Come on ... before you cause more of a scene out here than you already have." Constance stood up and straightened her night dress, wrapping her cloak more securely around her. She glanced up at d'Artagnan, pausing on her way back inside the house. "You..." she poked him in the chest. "Can clean that up," Constance told him, looking pointedly at the mess Aramis had left on the ground.
d'Artagnan opened his mouth to argue but Constance was already following Porthos and Aramis into the house. Looking at Athos didn't gain him any help, only a slight rise of an eyebrow and maybe a hint of sympathy before he too escaped to the confines of the Bonacieux home.
Great - d'Artagnan nose scrunched up in disgust as he glanced back at Aramis' mess - just what he wanted to be doing in the middle of the night. Sighing, his shoulders drooping in resignation. The young man scanned the area outside the Bonacieux home for the shovel he'd seen earlier that day upon arriving home. Moving over towards the side of the dwelling, d'Artagnan soon spied what he was searching for. He made quick work of shoveling the muck out the way, avoiding looking right at it. The smell was horrid enough and while d'Artagnan felt he had a pretty tough stomach he could feel it wanting to rebel as well.
d'Artagnan shivered as a cool breeze ripped through him reminding him of the little clothing he was wearing. It was a cool night, or was it early morning? He hadn't checked the time upon his sudden rude awakening. Either way d'Artagnan was glad to feel the warmth hit his skin as he walked back inside the house.
Inside, Constance was nowhere to be seen once more. Aramis was seated at the table, his head in his hands - almost rocking his body back and forth. Pain radiated off the man in waves. d'Artagnan winced in sympathy. Porthos was crouched beside his friend, his hand resting on Aramis' knee. The big man's face was full of concern and his gaze was concentrated on the other Musketeers pinched expression.
"So …" d'Artagnan hedged, placing his weapons on the table in front of his friends. He glanced at Athos - who was standing at the end of the table - when Porthos and Aramis paid him no mind. "What's the plan here? Not that I don't appreciate the late night visit but shouldn't he be taken to a doctor instead?" He rested his hip against the edge of the table, arms folded across his chest.
"That's why we're here," Athos supplied, slipping his gloves from his hands.
d'Artagnan glanced around the room, raising a brow in question. "There's no doctor here."
"We didn't think it kind for the whole garrison to be woken up by his distress."
Constance chose that moment to reappear, bustling down the stairs. "Yet you felt it okay to wake us up in the middle of the night?" With her arms full with cloth, blankets, bowls and some jars, she was a woman on a mission. "Move, d'Artagnan!" She demanded, causing him to jump up from where he had slouched, allowing her access to the table. He quickly reached out and removed his weapons from the table before being asked to.
"Our decision to come here was more for Aramis' benefit than the garrison," Athos told her.
"Tryin' to save 'im a little dignity," Porthos contributed from his crouched position.
"This won't be pretty … or quiet. We apologize for the inconvenience, Madame. We are in your debt," Athos replied.
Constance looked up to meet Athos' gaze, a small grin graced her pretty features. "I've stopped counting by now, Monsieur."
Athos inclined his head in acceptance of her jab, a rare smile forming on his lips.
"You said it was his tooth?" Constance asked, kneeling down in front of the hurting Spaniard. Her hand hovered over the one he had planted to his cheek as if she wasn't sure if her touch might hurt him further. "Just how did it get this bad?"
"It's ... it's my f-fault." Aramis admitted brokenly, his voice strained. He glanced up, meeting Constance's stare for all of a second with watery eyes before agony washed over him again.
Porthos reached up, squeezing his shoulder. "We warned 'im that 'e needed to see a doctor."
"Why on earth wouldn't you see a doctor, Aramis?"Constance asked, her voice full of confusion and frustration. "You men are all the bloody same," she sighed as she stood, reaching across the table for one of the jars she'd brought downstairs with her. "Would it kill you all just once to admit defeat and put your pride to rest?"
"I … t-thought…."
Constance laughed. "I sincerely doubt that you thought at all."
Aramis remained silent for a moment, his body language miserable and d'Artagnan was sure that if it wasn't for Porthos steady presence beside him the sharpshooter would have slipped to the floor and curled up in a ball in a vain attempt to keep the pain at bay. "I … didnt mean ..."
"Oh shut up, you," Constance reprimanded. She opened a jar of what looked like herbs of some kind and poured some of the contents into a bowl. "I'll send for a doctor. I can assure you that he won't be happy being woken up at this time of night…"
"We 'ad a doctor in mind," Porthos interrupted.
"The healer you mentioned last week?" d'Artagnan questioned, moving his balance from one foot to the other restlessly. With every barely contained whimper or moan from their friend he felt more and more useless. He tried his best to ignore the agony coming from the other side of the table and concentrate on the discussion at hand. "In the court of miracles?"
Porthos nodded. "That'd be 'im."
"Don't be ridiculous," Constance scoffed. "Why would you want to go into the court to get a doctor? We could have one here in a short amount of time." Constance paused in her herb crushing to look from Porthos to Athos like they were mad. d'Artagnan inwardly smiled at the fact that for once she wasn't giving him that look. "He needs to see a doctor."
"No!"
The response was from Aramis. It was short and panicked and the man's fingers were suddenly flexing in the leather of Porthos doublet. It reminded d'Artagnan of the morning the four of them had been sitting at the garrison eating breakfast last week. Aramis toothache had once again been the topic of discussion only this time the Musketeer's refusal to see a doctor was quieter, weighed down by pain and fatigue. It was, however, no less desperate. If he knew that it wouldn't cause him further pain, d'Artagnan might have just shook the stubborn man. "Aramis, Constance is right." Someone needed to make him see sense. This has gone on long enough.
Aramis ignored him, his concentration only reserved for Porthos. "No … please, Porthos. I … need … I need a doctor I can trust." He said, his voice as tense as his body. "Please," he begged once more. Aramis' eyes implored Porthos before they were snapped shut like he had been physically struck, a small whimper escaping.
Porthos held onto Aramis like he was the smaller man's only life-line and turned his own imploring gaze to Athos. Suddenly d'Artagnan felt like himself and Constance weren't in the room in that moment. There was an unspoken language between these three men, the inseparables, as d'Artagnan had heard them called. It fascinated him. He wanted to know more. The brotherhood of these men enticed him and he wanted nothing more than to be a part of its strength.
A moment of silent communication took place between the two older Musketeers. Athos seemed to be in two minds but ultimately his decision was made the moment a shuddering whine came from a trembling Aramis.
"We go to the court," Athos declared. "It shouldn't take us too long to get in and out without running into trouble. d'Artagnan, get dressed. We should make haste."
The decision was made. d'Artagnan nodded and rushed to his room without hesitation. He didn't understand why they needed that particular doctor over another but if that was what they needed to do? Then d'Artagnan would be with them. Athos knew what he was doing. Above anything else, d'Artagnan was sure of that. Besides, this at least gave him something to do instead of standing around feeling helpless while one of his friends - his brother - was in misery.
Grabbing a clean shirt, d'Artagnan tossed the garment over his head and then tucked the fabric into his breaches. He sat on the edge of the bed to pull his boots on. He ignored the bits of dirt and loose straw on the bottom of his stockings courtesy of his late night clean up outside. He didn't have time to be precious.
As he pulled the second boot on, sliding it to fit snugly around his calf, he jumped up in surprise to find Porthos coming through the door with a wilting Aramis clutched at his side. He moved out the way as Porthos bee-lined for the bed. "Constance thought he ought to be more comfortable in 'ere."
Upon depositing his friend on the bed, Porthos tried to cajole him into a lying down position. Aramis stayed still on his side for all of a fleeting moment before he pushed himself up with a cry of anguish.
"Aramis, you gotta rest," Porthos tried, one large gloved hand came to squeeze the back of Aramis' neck.
Aramis shook his head, clenching his eyes shut through another wave of agony before looking up at Porthos with glassy and desperate eyes. "E-Every time I lie, the throbbing in my … in my head it gets worse."
d'Artagnan watched in astonishment for a second. He'd never seen Aramis like this and it was more disconcerting than he would care to admit. He moved to the lone closet in the room and opened the door. He reached up and pulled out the spare pillow he knew to be there. Constance had told him of its existence on numerous occasions, confused on why he didn't use it. He'd explained to her that he'd never liked to use more than one, preferring to sleep on his stomach with one arm tucked under his pillow. He'd done so as long as he could remember.
"Here," he said, holding out the pillow-offering to Porthos. "Prop this up behind him and he should be able to rest with his head elevated … a little." He reached out to grip Aramis' shoulder, blanching at the heat radiating off the man. The urgency became that more serious with the trembling and heated skin underneath his hand. "Rest, Aramis."
d'Artagnan relinquished his hold and stood back when Porthos went back to manhandling their friend. Folding his arms across his chest, hands sequestered under his armpits, d'Artagnan watched the two Musketeers anxiously. Porthos had a gentleness about him that belied his size and strength. The large man hovered over Aramis like a worried mother - fussing, relieving Aramis of his jacket and boots. He was talking to him but d'Artagnan couldn't hear what was being said in the hushed tones. Whatever it was it seemed to calm the panicked man on the bed. Aramis slumped back against the pillows, spent. His breathing was small and fast and the pained grimace had not left his face.
As Porthos moved back, Aramis' clenched eyes snapped open and he surged forward again, reaching for Porthos. "No … wait."
"Aramis ..."
"Where are you going?"
"We're gonna get you a doctor, remember?"
Aramis took a shaky breath, looking around erratically but his gaze not really landing on anything in particular. He looked back at Porthos, hands fisted in the other man's leather. "mmhot.." he mumbled, flustered.
Porthos sighed. "I know, 'ats why we need a doctor. We're gonna get you all fixed, right?"
He locked eyes with Porthos and for a few long moments d'Artagnan waited as what seemed like another round of silent communication seemed to take place. The confusion in Aramis' gaze was worrisome, even more so than the pain. Porthos nodded slightly, a thin grin formed as Aramis nodded back, crumbling back against the pillows with a pitiful whine.
Athos appeared in the doorway, hands gripping both sides of the door frame as he leaned in to check on his friends. "Are we ready to leave?"
d'Artagnan stepped forward, slapping Porthos' arm when the older man made no move to pull away. "We need to go."
Porthos glanced askance at d'Artagnan and he hated to push the man but this was more than just a toothache. Aramis needed some serious help and he needed it … about a week ago. Porthos turned back to Aramis' breathless form. "You be good for Constance," he said with a smirk. He reached up and ruffled the dark curls like someone would a small child.
Aramis frowned, some understanding had crept back into his glazed expression. "Careful."
"Always, my friend." Porthos turned away and headed for the door.
With a smile of confidence towards the man now occupying his bed d'Artagnan followed Porthos out of the door, slipping into his leather doublet and collecting his weapons along the way. It felt good to be moving, to have some sort of plan. Outside d'Artagnan had found that Athos had saddled his horse. He appreciated the forethought because time really was the most important thing right now – they were running out of it.
Constance was hovering in the doorway as they all mounted their rides. She looked worried. d'Artagnan briefly wondered if that look upon her face was put there because of Aramis' situation or if she was worried about him going into the Court.
"We'll be as quick as possible, Madame." Athos voice was tight and on edge which matched Porthos' obvious need to kick his horse into movement.
"Don't get yourselves in trouble," Constance warned, wrapping her arms around herself. "You'll be no help to him if you get yourselves in trouble."
"We'll be fine." d'Artagnan shot her an encouraging smile.
Athos and Porthos set their horses in motion and with a quick wave d'Artagnan followed suit, feeling the urgency build with their speed.
XXXX
"So why this doctor?"
d'Artagnan's question sliced through the quiet Paris streets as they slowed their horses to a walk. It had been a silent question in the back of Athos' mind also.
"'Cause 'e's … talented."
"What do you mean by talented?" d'Artagnan pressed in hushed tones.
"He knows things. One of the best I've seen. 'e's more of a healer."
"Why do I get the feeling you're talking from experience?"
Porthos was silent for a few moments and Athos found himself waiting for the answer. There were parts of his friends past that he was unaware of, just as there were parts of his past that he kept to himself, things that he had no intention of divulging. d'Artagnan had already learned too much at his estate.
They had all fell into an easy step with each other, none of them asking for more than the other was willing to give. He respected that, it gave him a balance in life that stopped him from completely drowning himself in his sorrow. So he learned about his friends as they felt the need to confide. It happened over time. But he couldn't deny that he was curious now.
"This doctor, 'e saved my life once. Right before I left the court for soldiering."
"What happened?"
"Let's just say if it weren't for 'im I'd not have the use of both of me eyes."
Athos raised an eyebrow at this admission. The scar that ran across Porthos' eye was obvious but Athos had never really given it a second glance. It was a part of Porthos and while he knew it obviously held a story, he'd never really thought about it. They all had scars. They were soldiers. It was interesting to know that this particular scar happened before becoming a soldier. It was something Porthos carried from his upbringing in the court.
Looking out into the distance, Athos squinted, although it didn't really do much to improve his vision. Over by a building there looked to be a half built structure, derelict and forgotten. It was almost ominous in the dark. It would be a sufficient place to stop. Athos had no intention of riding into the court. He wanted to get in and out fast, without any fuss, and horses would attract attention.
"We should stop 'ere,"Porthos suggested as if reading Athos' mind.
Athos pulled his mount to a stop. He glanced around with trepidation. It was still dark which aided them in cover but also restricted their own ability to see.
d'Artagnan pulled up beside him, looking over at Porthos. "You do know where you're going?" he whispered.
Porthos raised an eyebrow at the young Gascon, whispering back. "What kind of question is 'at? Course I know where I'm bloody goin'"
Athos decided to ignore the exchange between the two, instead choosing that moment to dismount. He walked over to a railing that connected to an alleyway. They were right on the border of where Paris met the Court of Miracles. Athos took a long breath, watching as his huff was made visible by the cold early morning air.
Porthos and d'Artagnan directed their horses over to Athos and dismounted almost in unison, wrapping the reins around the railing.
"It's been a long time since you've seen this doctor. How do you even know he's still alive?" d'Artagnan questioned further in a hushed whisper.
"Cause I do."
"That's hardly an answer, Porthos."
"Trust me."
"I do."
"Doesn't sound like."
"Gentleman." Athos' low tones interrupted the bickering between the two men. They didn't have time for this and their journey through the court would not go unnoticed if they continued on this path. That said, the same questions had been floating in the back of Athos' mind. But he didn't feel the need to voice them. Porthos would not risk Aramis' life on a hunch. That was all Athos needed to know. "Are we ready?"
"One more question."
Athos waited patiently while Porthos was trying obviously not to growl in frustration. "What?"
"If Aramis is so against seeing a doctor for his tooth, why does he trust this doctor?"
"He doesn't," Porthos supplied, earning him a confused and exasperated look from the young man.
"He trusts Porthos," Athos stated as if the answer should have been obvious. That was after-all the only reason Athos felt compelled to come on this journey instead of dragging his stupid friend to any doctor within easy reach.
d'Artagnan absorbed the information and then shrugged, accepting it. "Fair enough."
"Glad you're 'appy with that. Can we get a move on now?"
"What are you waiting for?" d'Artagnan asked him, his grin teasing.
Porthos glowered at d'Artagnan for a moment. Athos fought to contain his own grin, despite the urgency or their mission. Flipping his cloak hood over his head, Porthos huffed and then headed into the court, no doubt expecting them to follow his lead. Athos, nudged d'Artagnan to follow after their friend. d'Artagnan was more capable than most men but Athos still felt the urge to protect the lad. He opted to take position in the rear, keeping their youngest member between them … protected.
The court wasn't as quiet as Athos would have liked for that time of the morning. Compared to the main city of Paris it was a hub of activity and not at all comforting. They remained unassuming, hoods over their heads, concealing their faces. They moved with Porthos as if they belonged there. Confidence was the key in any situation where you were in a place you didn't belong.
Unlike last time they had attempted to enter the court, this time they had a guide that knew how to navigate without being noticed. Porthos clearly knew where he was going and for a moment Athos felt like they might actually make it in and out without incident.
As they walked, Athos witnessed the world around him with sadness. The deeper they went the worse the conditions seemed to get. Porthos has grown up in this place, without parents, without someone looking out for him. But with sadness came pride. Because Porthos – despite his obvious disadvantages – had come out of the other side having made something of himself. He was one of the finest soldiers in the regiment and one of the finest men that Athos knew.
The man in question picked up his pace. In that moment, Athos knew Porthos had found his target. There was a dwelling in the distance, reddish glow from behind a thick curtain covering the doorway. Porthos stopped in front of the door, d'Artagnan almost running into the back of him at his sudden stop. Porthos hesitated. Athos wondered what he was thinking in that moment. There was more to Porthos' story than he had told them. That much was obvious. But now was not the time for nostalgia or demons. They needed to get back to Aramis.
"Porthos," Athos hissed, causing d'Artagnan to look over his shoulder at him.
"Right ..." Porthos whispered, his body language tense. He pulled aside the thick red curtain and stepped over the threshold.
d'Artagnan glanced at Athos one more time, wisely not commenting this time on whatever he was thinking. They both followed Porthos into the dwelling. Porthos slipped the hood back, revealing his face to whoever they would find. Athos and d'Artagnan followed suit, both squinting to adjust to the light of the candles littered around the room.
Their entrance did not go unnoticed. A small old man stood by an occupied bed at the back of the room. His form was hunched over. He looked frail and wrinkled with age as he tended to a sick child on the bed. Athos looked dubious at the man in front of them but once again he refrained from making a comment. He knew all too well that you could not judge a book by its cover.
The man in question had glanced up at the invasion of his home, a look of shock flashing across his features before recognition settled in its place.
"Maynard," Porthos greeted, a hesitant smile pulled at his lips.
The old doctor didn't immediately respond in kind and Athos realized they were about to learn more of Porthos' story that night. He hoped Aramis had time for it.
TBC...
A/N: I hope you enjoyed guys. There is obviously more to come. How a story about a toothache ended up with more than a one-shot I don't know. But I do have a plan :) See you soon :)