"If it's "nothing" then it won't do any harm for me to take a look at it," Aramis countered Athos' predicable reaction to his wound with the same patient tone he had used numerous times in the past, before playing his trump card. "And it will reassure the boy."
Athos raised a brow, clearly imagining d'Artagnan would protest the epitaph, but the young Gascon just looked at him expectantly.
"The jacket took the worst of it." Athos remarked, as he nonetheless obligingly eased his jacket and shirt to one side "It's barely a graze."
The livid red whip mark which curled down across his left shoulder and diagonally across his back with beads of blood oozing out of the few inches by his neck where the whip had met bare skin would have been seen as a significant injury by most men.
"It will need a stitch or two," Aramis looked at d'Artagnan. "But he'll live."
"As long as he's walking and talking it ain't too bad," Porthos patted d'Artagnan's shoulder kindly. "It's when he says he's fine and then his eyes roll back in his head that you have to worry."
"Porthos, you're not helping." Athos and Aramis spoke in chorus, before scowling at each other.
Porthos wrapped his large jacket around the Gascon's narrow shoulders both to warm him and try and cushion the pain as he helped d'Artagnan up onto Athos' mount and settled him in front of the musketeer. To his embarrassment the younger man could not help a sharp intake of breath at the movement.
"It hurts, I know," Athos murmured in his ear. "But it's faster than walking and there will be less jolting than trying to take you in a carriage. Can you bear it?"
D'Artagnan wanted to say that he could the bear the torments of hell if he could stay like this in Athos' embrace, feeling the warmth of his chest behind him, the strength of his arms encircling him and all of his demons of feeling unloved or unworthy utterly vanquished.
"It's fine." He allowed.
Athos snort of fond amusement suggested he still needed to do some work on keepings his feelings from showing. But he couldn't bring himself to care much just then. Just as he was allowing himself to drift he was struck by a sudden thought.
"My jacket," He tried to sit up. "The Pauldron."
"Hush," Athos soothed, settling him back. "Aramis has them safely, just rest."
Perhaps predictably pain won out over determination and d'Artagnan was insensible by the time they reached the garrison. By unspoken agreement they brought him to the guest room, rather than his own bed in the barrack room, knowing that d'Artagnan required peace and quiet to heal and they would need the space, since this time they had no intention of leaving his side.
"I'll need water, my sewing kit, some wine, make that a lot of wine and more blankets, he's going to get chilled," Aramis issued his instructions.
Athos cleared off the small desk to give him room to work before Porthos dragged him to a chair because he was 'bleeding all over the place'. Porthos stayed to help Aramis remove both jacket and shirt, jostling the younger man as little as possible, before turning his attention to Athos.
Aramis worked with his usual meticulous care, washing the wounds out with wine to guard against infection, before taking a long drink himself against what was to come. Using neat careful stitches to close the ugly wounds, sponging away the sweat and blood with gentle strokes.
Across the room he could hear the quiet murmur of voices as Porthos cleaned Athos' wound. They argued softly over who was going to do the stitching, based on the dubious quality of Porthos' needlework, (Athos) and the side effects of blood loss (Porthos). Aramis wasn't remotely surprised when Athos won out and Porthos held a glass so that Athos could make the few stitches required in his own neck, before drinking deeply of the wine Porthos offered.
D'Artagnan only stirred once as Aramis worked, attached by the soft sounds of pain, Porthos came over and lifted his head to help him drink a few mouthfuls of wine and then stroked his hair until exhaustion did the rest.
"We probably should have given him something to eat before we gave him any wine." Aramis observed without looking up from his work. "I doubt Garnon fed him at all."
"Better this way, lightweight like him on an empty stomach it'll put him right out," Porthos observed. "And at least no one has to punch him."
D'Artagnan did not stir again. Even as they dressed him in a soft shirt, to stop the stitches catching, carried him over to the bed and tucked him in under the blankets.
"He might have nightmares," Aramis worried. "We need to see he doesn't thrash around too much and ruin my needlework."
"I've got a solution for that." Porthos grinned, jerking his head across the room.
Looking around Aramis realised that Athos had not moved out of the chair since he had finished stitching his wound. Not only that but his head was now tipped back and he was snoring softly. Aramis knew that there was only one reason Athos would be sleeping that soundly when one of his friends was injured.
"You drugged him?" He looked at Porthos with a mixture of amusement and incredulity. "Have you forgotten what happened last time you tried that?"
"He didn't need to see any of that up close," Porthos was deadly serious, as he tipped his head in the direction of d'Artagnan's damaged back. "He's going to take this hard enough as it is."
He paused.
"He's going to have me sparring until my arm drops off, isn't he?" He made a face.
Aramis grinned as he picked up a couple of the bottles of wine and walked over to unceremoniously dump their contents out the window, before placing the empties in plain sight where Athos could be forgiven for assuming he had drunk them.
"Not if we both act as if he was awake the whole time and he just thinks he can't remember."
"Now that's a plan." Porthos laughed.
Together they stripped Athos to his small clothes and tucked him into the bed besides d'Artagnan. Passing one of the remaining bottles of wine between them they settled down to keep watch over their friends. At one point, d'Artagnan began to cry out and toss fretfully, obviously taken by a nightmare. But before Aramis could act Athos, his eyes still tight shut, threw out an arm and pulled d'Artagnan towards him. As soon as his head was pillowed on Athos' chest the younger man settled back to sleep.
"The boy has been good for him." Aramis mused.
"Now all we got to go is get 'im to be more like that when he's awake." Porthos observed.
It came as no surprise to any of them to discover that d'Artagnan was not a very patient, patient. He chafed at the bed rest Aramis ordered to avoid tearing the stitches. He tried to be grateful for their care but the constant pain made him irritable. Being so inactive he found he had no appetite and struggled to choke down even a few mouthfuls of broth under his friends' concerned gaze.
Every day Aramis carefully uncovered his back and checked the healing welts. Very quickly the three lower welts where the skin had been broken began to show signs of infection. Finally Aramis was forced to unpick his stitches so he could thoroughly flush out the wounds. And still he and Porthos did everything they could to prevent Athos seeing the extent of the damage.
"He'll only worry." Aramis explained to d'Artagnan.
"Then he'll blame himself, get all moody, drink even more than usual, do something stupid and then we'll have too patients to deal with." Porthos added.
"Is this another one of those "We're learnt from experience" things?" d'Artagnan tipped his head on one side.
"Athos has a history of putting himself in danger when he feels he has something to atone for," Aramis frowned. "And for one I would rather not have to dig another bullet out of him. God willing, things will look much improved once it's actually had a chance to heal."
Aramis was all too well aware scars they often looked a lot worse than they were before they started to look better. As the welts healed the dark red scabs stood out harsh and angry against d'Artagnan's usually tanned skin. Every day, morning and night, Aramis applied a salve to try and reduce the scarring.
"It's itching." D'Artagnan complained one day.
"That means its healing." Aramis reminded him. "Could you at least try to keep still?"
D'Artagnan flinched slightly as the cool slave touched his bare skin, but then did his best not to move as Aramis set to working the salve into the healing welts he began to relax, feeling himself edge towards sleep under the careful ministrations. Aramis only realised Athos had been standing silently the doorway, watching everything, when the other man turned to leave.
"Athos."
The few seconds it took to cover the now sleeping d'Artagnan and tuck him cost him precious time. Even as he moved he cursed his folly. All the effort he and Porthos had put into hiding the extent of the damage from Athos' view had been undone in a careless instant. Athos was already out of the building, across the courtyard and almost lost in the melee of the street when Aramis caught up with him under the archway.
"Athos, it's not as bad as it looks." He tried to reassure.
"Really?" Athos turned to face him. "Exactly how bad is it?"
The soldier in Aramis responded to hearing that tone in Athos' voice with a thousand memories. How many times had they stood over fallen comrades, the tang of blood in the air and the hope of surviving until morning balanced on a knife edge between skill and hope.
"He's young and strong and perhaps even more stubborn than you are," Aramis gave a fleeting smile. "We still have to watch for infection and there'll be some scarring but I give you my word he will recover fully."
"But he will carry the scars?" Athos asked in an odd tone.
Aramis straightened to look his friend in the face. It was obvious that Athos was remembering some other occasion when someone he loved had been forced to carry the scars of what he saw as his failing.
"Most likely," He saw no point in denying it. He was skilled with a needle and young skin healed better than most, but this kind of damage was not easily repaired. He put a hand on Athos' shoulder. "You know, I'll do everything I can."
He took no comfort from the hand that came up to briefly cover his own. Athos would not want him to feel any responsibility for something for which he blamed himself.
By that evening d'Artagnan realised he was actually starting to feel better. He sat meekly as Aramis applied another coat of the healing salve and fought the urge to scratch his tormenting wounds.
"I wanted to thank you," 'He found his voice, looking steadily ahead, as a faint blush staining his still pale cheeks. "For taking such good care of me, I'm sorry I'm been such a burden to you all. I'll try to do better."
"Caring for a friend is an honour not a burden," Aramis corrected gently. "And a serious wound is always something of a trial. Sadly, that never gets easier."
"I acted more like a child forbidden to go out to play rather than a King's musketeer." d'Artagnan mocked himself.
"You think you were bad? You should see Porthos when confined to his bed or Athos when the physician counsels against the taking of strong drink."
"That genuinely does not bear thinking about." d'Artagnan mock shuddered.
Done with his task Aramis pulled down the lad's shirt and then tousled d'Artagnan's hair wildly so that it stuck up at all angles.
"Hey!" d'Artganan protested. "Mind the hair."
"I see the patient is feeling more lively," Porthos observed as he entered with a tray. He grinned at d'Artagnan. "Brought you some dinner."
"Please tell me it's not more broth?"
"Really are feeling better, huh? Nah, got that venison you liked so much when we went out for your birthday. And that thing with mushrooms and sweet peppers that you said was just like your mum used to make. And if you can eat all of that there might be a custard to follow."
"How did you afford all this?" d'Artagnan worried.
"Don't you mind, I've got the money for this and more besides," d'Artagnan's protests were ignored in favour of tucking a napkin into his shirt collar, "And it comes with strict instructions for you to eat up and get your strength back."
"May, I at least enquire the name of my benefactor?"
"Now don't go getting your hopes up that you've got a new secret admirer," Porthos teased. "This was all Athos' doing. He gave me a whole purse of money before he left and said "make sure he eats."
D'Artagnon felt warmth spread threw his chest at the generosity of his friend, Athos' brusque words belying the innate kindness of his gesture. The food did smell really good. Taking a small bit he realised that for the first time in days something did not taste like sawdust in his mouth. He ate greedily for a few mouthfuls until he registered exactly what Porthos had said.
"Wait, Athos left?"
"This morning," Aramis sighed, as he and Porthos exchanged an unreadable look. "He'll be back in a few days."
"Treville's orders," Porthos clarified. "Don't look like that. It's nothing the least bit dangerous. It's just something to keep Athos busy."
D'Artagnan looked wide eyed from Aramis to Porthos, not able to reconcile their anxious expressions with the man who had spent countless hours sitting patiently by his bedside, gruffly ordering him swallow a few mouthfuls of some invalid fare, reading to him from a seemingly endless collection of adventure novels and sleeping by his side to keep his nightmares at bay.
"I'm missing something, aren't I?" He realised astutely.
"He finally saw. just how bad it was, Porthos gestured at d'Artagnan's back.
"Even the bravest of men can only stand so much," Aramis said gravely. "Athos has always found it harder to bear the pain of his friends than his own. I am not sure he will ever forgive himself for Garnon leaving you permanently scarred."