This won him a choked laugh despite the considerable pain Aramis found himself in.

"I was...I was so angry, Athos!" Aramis blurted out eventually, emphasising his feelings with a stamp of his foot then immediately cursing himself for such a childish action. For a moment Athos did not reply and Aramis belatedly realised he was waiting for him to elaborate, perhaps even thinking how terrible it was that Aramis had been angry when he was the one in wrong. He hurried to absolve himself from that at least: "Not at you, or- or Porthos! At me. At myself!"

"Why?"

Athos' calm voice broke over him like a wave, washing away any and all traces of self-control he had left. He felt his body go weak, only the hand that was clutching so tightly to Athos' resisting the sudden urge to melt into a puddle of shame, pain, humiliation, and pain. He had counted pain twice, he realised. But Athos had been going at this for what felt like hours, and there was a lot of pain – it surely deserved to be considered twice. That thought tipped him further still into submission. It hurt. Oh God! It hurt so much. And yet surely it was so much less than he deserved? For a moment words proved to be beyond him, and all he could think of was his friends' faces earlier that day when he had dared accuse them of not caring for d'Artagnan, not deigning to protect him like the fiercely loved younger brother that he had become to them all. They had been horrified that he should accuse of them of it. Furious. Even perhaps a little confused. But most of all? He had wounded them with his callousness. Hurt them with words that he did not believe and had only said to attempt to justify what he knew could not be justified – to drown out his own self-loathing!

"Why, Aramis?" Once more Athos' familiar drawl broke through, soothing his wretched thoughts like a balm. "Do not make me ask again."

Blinded by his tears and quite unable to find words to explain the levels to which he had sunk to ease his own conscience, Aramis could only sob. Above him, Athos sighed and then WHAP! For a moment everything narrowed; the shame, the self-hatred, the fear: all of it disappeared, chased away by the inferno Athos was suddenly creating upon his scalded buttocks. While Aramis vaguely appreciated the attention being drawn away from his now throbbing thighs, the explosion of stinging pain that each new smack that fell ignited across his bottom made it difficult to think anything at all beyond 'OW!'.

"Have I your attention once more?"

Frantically, Aramis nodded.

"Good."

And the smacks slowed, and lightened and oh. Every few swats was interspersed with the lightest of caresses and it felt so nice. So good to be shown this affection after almost a full day of silence and sharp looks and internally berating himself for every word that came out of his mouth from the second he had awoken that morning. And Athos was not yet finished, he knew. They would continue on in this way until Aramis was ready to stop but it was Athos who would know – somehow always knew – when that time was. Every now and then a particularly hard swat would fall and Aramis would jolt back into his body with a sob, but apart from that? Each smack was falling so lightly and he was so exhausted he could have fallen asleep exactly where he lay if only he could have escaped the steady ache each so-called smack re-ignited.

"I was so angry, Athos," he murmured eventually, turning his head to one side and gazing unseeingly at his own fingers on the bedspread. "I was so so angry and so...so ashamed."

"Because the mission could have been lost?" Athos said with the distinct air of someone who knows they are speaking rubbish. Aramis huffed but corrected him anyway.

"Because I got you all hurt." His voice broke over the last word and he attempted to withdraw the hand that Athos still held against his back. Athos would not budge, if anything held it tighter, his thumb rubbing against Aramis' wrist gently. "I could hear myself saying those things to you. To you and-and Porthos. Could hear myself but I couldn't stop!"

"I knew what you were doing," Athos admitted softly, more rubbing than spanking now. "Porthos did too, once he thought about it."

At that, Aramis sobbed again, his throat feeling raw and aching. Porthos knew. He had been so furious but he knew. They both did. They had seen his callousness, his defiance and known that he did not mean it. If Aramis had not already been weeping steadily, he would have burst into tears from the wondrous embarrassment that kindled within him. Still, he could not help but voice his fears.

"Por- Porthos s-"

"Yes, Porthos swatted at you. 'Tis hardly the first time, my friend."

Aramis shook his head frantically, feeling the damp curls stick rather than fly as they normally would.

"But it is always difficult to know you have upset him so, I know," Athos sighed and finally seemed to give up the pretence of continuing to punish him, simply placing his hand upon Aramis' throbbing cheeks and resting it there. "He regretted it later. He would have said so but you refused to be near him."

"I got you hurt." Aramis repeated, shuddering at the recollection. "And then I- I accusedyou of-"

"Aramis, we are speaking in circles. Enough now. Yes, you acted unthinkingly, but you are quite, quite forgiven for that. And yes, you lashed out at us when you could no longer bear it alone – again," - he patted Aramis' so terribly sorebottom lightly - "I think you have more than paid your debt, my friend."

Aramis was silent for a long while then, willing himself faster into the familiar tranquility that being punished brought him. Athos did not disturb him, but rubbed his back and petted his tousled hair every so often until Aramis felt as if he could breathe again without his entire body shaking from the effort. Finally, as he was beginning to vaguely consider the possibility of standing or at least relieving Athos so that he might at least get some feeling back in his legs, Athos suddenly spoke.

"Come on," he said, his hands stilling as he sat back a little,."Surely you must tire of this position by now?"

Obediently, Aramis slithered down from Athos' knees to kneel at his feet. His trembling all but ceased, he still wrapped one arm immediately around the older man's legs and hugged them to himself as if he were no more than a sleepy child. He felt lighter somehow, as though the burden of his guilt had lifted and pained him no more and for that gift he was inconceivably grateful to Athos. For his current inability to set his backside down lest he reignite the already dulling sting, he was less so. Presently, Athos' hand descended once more upon his head and with affectionate familiarity began to massage and pet the damp hair at the nape of his neck and smoothed the damp curls back from his face. With a sigh, Aramis felt himself sinking lower and lower, his eyelids growing heavy as he felt the familiar weakness that followed such discussions between them coming upon him.

"Am I forgiven?" he asked, his voice thick and muffled against Athos' leg. Though he had never been given reason to fear the response, he did not dare look up and face the condemnation he might find.

"Always."

The immediacy and sureness of Athos' response caused them both to smile and Aramis did look up then. Upon seeing the weariness in his friend's face, he drew closer still with a small murmur of concern until that was hushed with assurances that all was well. They sat like that for a long while: Athos with one hand in Aramis' hair, and Aramis curled against Athos' legs his face half buried against them as he gazed unseeingly away. They did not speak either; there was no need for talk now. What needed to be said had been and what had not could wait until Aramis – and indeed Athos – had collected himself enough to say it. For now – but for the occasional whimper and answering hush – there was silence between them.