Fourth prompt: Aramis has a panic attack and Athos talks him through it.

A/N: I went non-specific modern AU for this one, because I'd been wanting to try my hand at such a thing as that for a while, even though I know it isn't everyone's cup of tea. It's short, focusing on the panic attack itself without filling in all the background information. Nominally, it could fit into a variety of the modern AUs that have been sketched out, where the characters have similar or comparable backgrounds to the ones on the show. In my head here, they're specialized agents/law enforcement officers of some sort, with d'Artagnan new to the team, if that helps conceptualize. Other than that, it's a little cliche - plus also, not my finest - but well enough for some fannish pleasure. I think.

Panic Attack

-o-

The smile Aramis flashed as he slipped out the side door of the office was too bright. The casual hand he waved in Athos' direction too forced and hurried.

"Athos—" d'Artagnan started to say.

"Stay here," Athos ordered, shrugging on his jacket to follow.

D'Artagnan straightened, glancing between the heavy door and Aramis' desk as though realizing he'd just missed something. "Athos?"

"Keep working. Pull a hardcopy of all possible missing-persons fitting this profile, and if you can, get it on Porthos' desk before he gets back."

He didn't pause to see if d'Artagnan would obey—just casually quickened his pace to catch the slow swing of the outside door before it could completely close. Trotting swiftly down the narrow steps he glanced left to right and saw Aramis in the alley, bending forward with hands against the brick. His head was down, and his muscles were strung tautly, making him look about as stable as cracking glass.

Athos slowed his pace. Letting his hands spread of their own accord, he reined himself in, curbing his desire to rush in favor of a soft approach. "Aramis?"

Startling and spinning as though Athos had fired a gun, Aramis jerked sideways and threw a palm out defensively, as though to ward Athos away. The panicked intensity of his gaze as it landed on Athos was unyielding, his body bent and ragged as his ribcage struggled to expand.

In response, Athos kept his hands up, wide and unthreatening, and with careful precision, took another step. "Breathe, Aramis," he said, sequestering his voice to its smoothest monotone.

"—don't!" Aramis returned, the word escaping, soft and sharp, on a strained exhale.

"Aramis, look at me." Athos held his gaze. "I just need you to breathe. That's all. Easy and slow. That's all I'm asking of you." Keeping his voice and movements calm, he took another step.

"A - Athos," Aramis panted desperately. Shuffling unsteadily backward, the bright panic on his face was crumpling progressively into something much more shattered.

As Athos watched him struggle to breathe, the palm Aramis had warded toward him wavered and flinched, as though it were something separate from the rest of Aramis' body, seizing and twisting in an awkward spasm.

"It's tetany, Aramis, you know that. You were breathing too quickly, and now you just need to breathe—slow."

Dropping his arm and head as though defeated, Aramis dragged his cramping hand inward toward his stomach and made a broken noise, lungs tripping as he tried to inhale.

Closing the gap, Athos caught him just before he graced the pavement, taking them both to their knees just short of gently. "I've got you," he promised, tightening his grip. "I've got you."

Aramis shuddered, wrenching a short breath into Athos' collar.

"I've got you," Athos repeated, the steady lay of his own voice faltering just barely. He coughed to recover. "I've got you. This won't last. You know that. It's going to be okay." Carefully maneuvering the both of them while he spoke, he eased into the wall, setting his back against it and pulling Aramis flush against chest. Soothing his hands down Aramis' arms, he took his wrists into a massaging grip just below the cramp-locked hands.

"We've been here before," he intoned, stroking his thumbs smoothly across the cold skin at the base of Aramis' palms. "We've been here before. We both know this, and I've got you."

Gasping, Aramis arched, another broken sound cracking through the series of shallow exhales he was struggling to counter.

Athos tightened his hands around Aramis' wrists and then relaxed them, forcing himself to keep this grip soft as his thumbs maintained their steady stroking. "Easy. Easy. I've got you. Slow, now. Take it slow. I just need you to listen. Listen to my voice, and take it slow." He stretched his words, working to make a cadence out of them.

It seemed a long time coming when one of Aramis' breaths finally found purchase to sink in deeper, the crown of his head surrendering to Athos' shoulder as his throat elongated and another, more complete breath, followed the first.

"That's good, Aramis. That's good. Slowly now. Take it slow," Athos repeated, expanding his own chest on a careful count, until Aramis started to match him and the wrangled hands beneath his thumbs began to loosen and relax. The rest of Aramis' ridged muscles followed along cautiously, giving out one by one as they surrendered.

"I'm sorry," Aramis whispered, an exhausted droopy sound dissipating toward the sky.

Letting go of one wrist, Athos curved a hand upward, tangling it in Aramis' hair. "You needn't be—as we've told you before."

Aramis huffed, heavy with the exhaustion of weighted limbs. "This—I'm a fool," he breathed.

"Only because you think this makes you one."

"I thought they were getting better—going away."

"They are," Athos insisted. "That you continue to have them doesn't put you back at square one."

Aramis' lungs moved silently, hoarding air for a long moment before Athos felt the barest of nods. He glanced at the sky from their position in the alley as his own dark thoughts rolled forward and couldn't help but add, "Having another one doesn't put you back at square one—hiding them from us might."

Aramis swallowed thickly. "I know. I'm sorry. I ... didn't want you to worry. I ... didn't want to be sent back to psych."

Exhaling a short breath through his nose, Athos scrubbed his fingers over Aramis' scalp but didn't say anything—overtly conscious of the dangerous abyss of emotion still hanging about them. "Rest a moment," he said instead. "You won't be able to stand just yet."

Lifting a trembling hand, Aramis pressed fingers into his eyes and rolled his forehead into Athos' neck, just as Athos caught the hint of a faint sound coming from up the stairway. Glancing over the head of a disconcertingly oblivious Aramis, his gaze locked unerringly with d'Artagnan's.

Despite looking pale and thrown—with questions and worry battering against his unbridled nature—d'Artagnan kept his mouth closed, staring from Athos to Aramis and back again. After a teetering moment, he gave Athos a tight nod and disappeared quietly back inside.

-o-