A/N: A big Thank You! to all those of you who favorite, follow and review this story. Your support is always a huge motivation to write and especially for this chapter because for some reason this one just wouldn't write itself. And when it finally started to flow I decided to cut it off somewhere to prevent story asphyxiation but couldn't decide the point to break it off, so you get the entire chunk.
For Debbie: Thank you for reviewing! I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Ok let's see, I'm not absolutely sure if d'Art would make another appearance in this story, but so far I don't see it happening. He will probably make another guest appearance in the next story I'm planning and will be a regular star in the one after that since I'm trying to converge it with the cannon story line, to some extent at least. And no he's not a born knot, that's still Aramis, I kind of started off with that thought when I wrote the first part of this series. But yes, d'Art's grandfather had a point, he will have an important place in the scheme of things, not to say that Athos and Porthos won't, I love them all really, they're all important in different ways. They're a set of brothers, I can't not have one without the other, I just adore their relationship and I should stop here because I'll just go and on and on, so yeah... stopping now. Thank you for sharing your thoughts! I'm stopping now in earnest. On with the story...
Having escorted the Red Guards to their barracks the two of them followed Jacques, the garrison stable boy, through the narrow streets of Paris. The Captain had sent two more Musketeers with the carts, Cluzet and Jean-Pierre rode ahead of him while Marsac trailed behind like a sullen, hung-over cloud. There was a strange subdued touch to the air of the city and Aramis frowned at the way the citizens watched their small procession. He glanced back towards Marsac and found him scowling at all and sundry. Eyes followed them down the street and dismissing the prickle settling like an itch between his shoulders Aramis wondered if Athos and Porthos would forgive him for keeping his abilities a secret. Anticipation and dread mixed into an odd flavor of anxiety as they crossed through the garrison gates.
He didn't miss the way other Musketeers turned sharply at the sound of their entrance, their swords halfway unsheathed and their pistols raised steadily. No one joked about it, but cast weary glances at each other and offered a nod to the new arrivals. His keen eyes sought details like the way the Captain hurried out of his office and onto the balcony, the unnaturally still form of Athos at the table in the yard and the muddy patch on the ground that looked suspiciously red.
Believing Athos to still b be angry at him, he dismounted from his mare, handed the reins to Jacques and met Treville at the foot of the stairs that led to the Captain's office above.
"Another attack by the Shredder," the Captain answered his silent inquiry.
Athos hadn't even looked up at his arrival and Aramis couldn't keep from frowning at this completely next level of coldness. He nodded distractingly for the Captain and eyed the soaked patch of earth near the garrison gates.
"Etienne didn't make it,"
Aramis whipped his head back to catch the Captain's gaze, he stared in confused horror, because the last time they had met Etienne was injured, he wasn't to be sent out on any duty, he was to stay in the garrison….so that meant….he glanced again at Athos with unspoken relief and his eyes darted towards the open doors of the infirmary. He fervently hoped that Porthos was in their sleeping.
"Porthos…." The Captain began and Aramis felt his breath caught, he mutely shook his head. He was suddenly acutely aware that he could not think the man dead, after surviving the loss of so many people close to him it was strange how this one loss threatened to break him like none had before.
"He's alive Aramis, he was alive last I saw him and I have a feeling he still is." The Captain hurried to explain.
Aramis looked to the side when he noticed Athos twitch; he couldn't see the man's face since his hat was pulled down low. His head swung back to their Captain as a thousand scenarios went through his head and none of them good.
"Last you saw him?" it came out just a touch away from a growl.
"I think it'll be best if we discuss it in my office," the Captain said, "Athos you're coming too."
A part of Aramis was glad of the Captain's forethought because he was holding on to his control by a stretching thread and watching Athos march up the stairs after Treville wasn't helping. His friend's face was still hidden by the slanted hat and Aramis was itching to pull the damn thing off.
It was with a greatest effort that he ignored the stony presence of Athos and listened to what the Captain told him about what had taken place in his absence. He silently cursed his friend's self-sacrifice and dared another glance towards the other man standing in the Captain's office.
"And you let him?" Aramis asked as his gaze went from the quite Lieutenant to the Captain, "You let him go with that maniac?"
"He did it for you," Athos spoke quietly.
The chilly blue gaze was hard, calculating and far more piercing than any blade Athos could wield. There were rust colored speckles of dried blood on his face and the man gave nothing away as he pinned Aramis with his eyes.
"For me?"
"You really don't know," Athos' head tilted a bit in observation before he nodded at the Captain, "I think you need to fill him in." he said.
"Captain?"
"Remember when we first met your mother told you that we had known each other once before?"
"Yes,"
"Well she had told me things, things about you…"
It turned out that the personal secret he had been keeping wasn't that personal at all. Aramis teetered between shock, indignation and an edge of embarrassment as their Captain explained to him in a terribly concise manner what he was and what it meant. Aramis didn't dare look at Athos, he couldn't understand how but it seemed that he had dragged the man and Porthos into whatever this mess was. He was a Psychic, a Knot that was born, something that made him wrong; but these two men hadn't asked to be tethered. Aramis wasn't braced for the guilt that hit him, his friends hadn't volunteered to be a part of this and he clenched his fists at the thought that he should have had understood somehow, should have had the grasp of his abilities as the Captain put it.
"So this Weaver will use me for….what?"
"Destroying the world," Athos replied blandly, "It seems that a lot of important people have you overestimated."
Aramis flinched despite the small part of him that hoped that Athos had spoken in jest. But he couldn't be sure of his place with the man right now, not until Porthos was safe and he could seek forgiveness from both the men.
"Do we know where this Shredder is based?"
"It's not difficult to trace a man of his appearance since he had started coming out in the daylight," the Captain nodded and pointed to the map he had spread onto his desk, "He is hiding out in an abandoned limestone mine here."
Aramis looked at the map, noted the place, reserved it in his memory and asked the Captain what his plan was. He hardly paid mind to the man explain the number of men he was collecting to launch an attack in the depth of the night. In truth he only needed to know when the Captain meant to move against this enemy so that he could know the time he had in which to act. Because one thing was abundantly clear to Aramis now, this Shredder and this Weaver were his enemies, his responsibility.
"So as a rule my abilities as a Psychic wouldn't work on Watchmen and you are certain this Shredder is one of them?" he asked.
"Yes,"
Aramis wanted to know exactly how the Captain was certain of this, after all it couldn't be information that his mother would have passed on to him as the man claimed for the store of knowledge he had just displayed on the matter. But Aramis was hard pressed for time, Porthos was in danger. He asked the Captain to be a part of the rescue mission and wasn't surprised when he was denied.
He left the Captain's office with a plan of his own. He was down the stairs, across the yard and into the stables when a hand on his arm stopped him. It took him a moment to register Athos' inquisitive gaze focused on him.
"And pray do tell where you are going," he said.
"I'm going to get Porthos back," Aramis dragged out a pair of ragged bandanas from his saddle bag, "I'm going to stop this Shredder once and for all."
"Our weapons don't work against him neither will your abilities,"
"Maybe someone much more powerful than me could use theirs then," Aramis shrugged as he tied one bandana over his head and wrapped the other on the lower half of his face. When he was sure that he had the proportions right he pulled it down and bunched it under his chin.
"What are you planning?"
"She wants the seal of the Comte d'Fleurhelm that he has brought to Paris," he said, "If I can get them together they are bound to go for each other's throats; Psychic and Watchman."
"Not necessarily," Athos reasoned.
"Fine then I'll tell her that I've given the seal to the Shredder,"
"She would ask you to get it back and she will not ask kindly," Athos shook his, "She could've gotten the seal from the Comte herself if she could have."
"Then it's a bargain," Aramis gave him a mirthless smile, "She's powerful Athos, the Captain said the Watchmen are afraid of her. I will give her this seal in return for freeing Porthos."
"They're both after you; I don't see how it's still not a suicidal plan,"
"I have to get Porthos back," Aramis mounted his horse.
Athos grabbed the reins of his mare and Risas pawed the stables floor. Each held the leather retraints, pulled taut, yet not hard enough to draw away. Blue eyes met brown like a blade sliding against rock.
"You're going to steal from the Palace." Athos said, "The same Palace you have sworn to protect."
"Porthos' life is in danger."
"The Captain is planning –"
"The Captain will only lose more men," Aramis cut him off; "It's the only way."
"You're a Musketeer," Athos reminded him.
"All for one," Aramis nodded and jerked the reins free from Athos. He pressed his heels into the flanks of his mare. The animal instantly broke into a cantor even as he exited the gates and rode out into the streets.
He was tired, his side ached and the powdery air that hung about him tickled the back of his throat. He was glad he had remembered to put on his jerkin before he had left the infirmary because they were deep enough in the caves for the chill to settle like a dusty layer on his skin. Porthos glanced at his captor who stood straight, with his back towards the Musketeer and his face towards the slanted glow of late afternoon sunlight that had managed to permeate the gloom this far.
"It's the armour isn't it?" he asked, "Pinches when you sit eh?"
He wasn't sure when he had gotten used to Aramis chattering his ear off but he was missing his friend, his observations and comments had somehow become the white noise that settled Porthos' nerves. The Shredder didn't budge and Porthos huffed as he plopped down on the cool floor of the cave, kicking up a puff of dust. The big man sneezed violently, inhaled sharply on a reflex and found the dust scratching within the hollow of his throat. Within minutes he was doubled over coughing.
The slightly wheezing Musketeer looked up when he heard light footsteps shuffling towards them. A female silhouette cut the pale light from the mouth of the cave and Porthos cleared his throat as he squinted to capture the features of the woman who stopped close to the Shredder. She stuck a hand in the basket she carried and offered a loaf of bread to the man clad in armour. Her eyes never lifted to the black helmet and she flinched when the dark gauntlet took the bread from her hand.
A timid glance was cast Porthos' way before it skittered over the dark metal and the eyes again dropped to the ground.
The Shredder gave a jerky shake of his head as though to answer some unspoken question.
"He is hurt," it was barely above a whisper.
Another jerky shake creaked in the silence.
"I could give him water," the woman didn't look up from the floor.
"No," the hollow voice boomed.
"But he is bleeding,"
"No,"
"But –"
Porthos looked to his side in surprise and frowned when he felt the bandages around his wound had gone sticky. He looked up at the sound of metal moving and was on his feet before the hand had completely risen in the air. He pulled the woman back and behind him.
She whimpered and the hand paused. The Shredder abruptly dropped his arm and marched down towards the entrance of the cave. When it seemed that the he wouldn't be looking there way again, Porthos turned to the woman.
"Hey, you're alright," he grasped the sniffling creature by her bony shoulders, "It's alright,"
She nodded even as she dried her eyes with the corner of her sleeve and swayed a little as Porthos let her go. Adjusting her basket on her arm, she shuffled back a bit.
"Thank you," she murmured, "That was a big risk."
Porthos cocked his head to the side but didn't say anything. He wanted to know who this woman was and why was she here except to offer sustenance to a man ready to beat her, but he wasn't blind to the way she kept her gaze in check, stood at a distance and just a little turned away from him as though ready to hunch against an attack or bolt if need be.
"He isn't always like this," she stammered out against the silence, "Wasn't, he wasn't like this. Not before he – he was a kind man, he wasn't this –"
"Monster," Porthos finished for her.
Dark eyes too big for the narrow face looked up at him in surprise and the woman shook her head quietly.
"My husband is a kind man, he would do anything for his family," she cast a glance at the rigid figure, "He had done everything for his family."
"Madame –"
"Clarence, my name is Clarence," she tucked a pale strand of hair behind her ear, "Why has Alan brought you here?"
"It's a long story Madame," Porthos shook his head, "You are aware what it is that your husband does?"
Clarence jiggled her head in both a nod and a shake.
"It's that wretched armour," she said, "It changed him."
"Then why doesn't he get rid of it?" Porthos had to ask.
"Because he can't," she very nearly snapped although it dissolved in quite tears, "It will not be penetrated by any weapon and only the man who ordered it is able to release my husband from it."
The woman gathered her arms around herself as she looked up at the Musketeer.
"He hasn't even paid my husband yet," she said, "Alan did it all for us and he hadn't even received what he was promised."
He was no stranger to desperation, he had skirted the edges of morality and barely held on to its frayed threads when hunger had tried to gnaw out of his belly and cold had circled like a vulture over his head. A thump of metal announced the Shredder returning to them and Porthos shifted in front of the woman.
The man in the armour gave a jerky nod towards the entrance.
"Leave," he told the woman.
Porthos heard the rustle of her long skirt as she moved from behind him. He tracked her with his eyes as she crossed from in front of the Shredder and moved forward only to stop when the gauntlet clad hand caught the slim arm. The woman gasped and Porthos started, but even in the dim light he could tell there was no force behind the hold.
A strange choked sound reverberated in the cave and then the man in the armour let her go.
Porthos watched Clarence leave then glanced back at the Shredder. For the first time since he had gotten to heard about this murder he surprised himself by thinking about the man in the armour. The face behind the helmet, the heart under the chest plate and just like that a plan began forming in his mind.
Clamping a hand onto his throbbing wound the Musketeer sat down on the ground and idly toyed with a rock larger than his fist.
"She's a beauty that one," he said, "Clarence, it's a pretty name."
He wasn't surprised when the Shredder rounded on him. Porthos grinned and winked at the man.
"I'll be taking good care of her when you're gone," he smiled, "Her an' the little ones, a cozy family it'll be don't you th –"
The kick to his side echoed all the way into his head. Gasping and still grinning he scooted back against the wall. There was no way to escape the leg swinging towards his ribs again and Porthos simply rolled with it as the impact on his injured side had him grunting.
He pulled a sharp inhale as his forehead came to thump against the floor and he exhaled slowly. Aramis and Athos would have his hide for this, Porthos was absolutely sure of it.
"She needs a man in her life you know," he gasped out, "Since you can't watch over your family all proper like –"
The Shredder's spiked foot stamped down hard on his thigh and Porthos choked out a scream. His fingers scrabbled against the rather large rock he had been toying with. As the spike under the armoured toe dug into his flesh, Porthos grit his teeth and slammed the rock as hard as he could against the black metal foot.
It didn't leave a dent in the metal but it did get the foot dislodged from his thigh. The Shredder bestowed on him one last kick and stalked off. Porthos heaved in gulping breaths as he pulled himself up against the wall of the cave. He could feel the blood soaking his breeches and he groaned softly as the movement sent tremors of pain out up to his head and down to his toe.
With shaky fingers he touched the sluggishly bleeding hole in his thigh and felt the jagged rim of the spike embedded there. The fiery pain licked at his consciousness and the dust clumped red under his leg, Porthos felt the spike again and grinned.
It was not a good idea; it was far from anything remotely masquerading to be a good idea. At best direct and at worst detached, he was the last person to be the compassionate messenger of devastating news. But the Captain seemed convinced otherwise. That was how Athos found himself standing in the tiny room at the inn, standing in awkward indecision, while the red-brown curls of Etienne's sister shook as the bent head sobbed quietly.
His mind was miles away to wherever that Shredder had taken his friend and he was absolutely not worried about the other fool who had went to rob the Palace of all the places. Athos caught himself before he could question himself as to why he hadn't reported the impending theft as he was supposed to. Life was so much easier when he didn't care he thought and that brought him to the upsetting revelation that he did care in the first place.
He forced his attention back on the bent head that rose at length after the initial sobs had tapered off. Her quite tears didn't stop even though she nodded as though collecting herself. Then she looked to Athos with big wet eyes.
"What am I supposed to do now Monsieur Athos?"
There weren't many things that visibly startled the ex-Comte but the question was one such rarity. He stared at the young woman who was for some reason looking to him for guidance and the Musketeer wondered what he had done to deserve it.
"Etienne had nothing but respect for you," she murmured as though she had read his thoughts, "His letters spoke highly of your ability to stay calm and plan ahead. Said you were the steadiest man he knew."
He suddenly remembered many a drunken walks that he had made to his rooms in the dead of the night and Athos pulled off his hat to wipe a hand through his hair. Crossing the distance between them he stopped in a crouch before the girl perched on the edge of the bed.
"I don't know anything except that your brother wanted what was best for you," He told her, "He wanted you safe and happy."
"My aunty would be so mad," she sniffled a little, "I should write to her, tell her where I am what had happened."
"That would be a good start," Athos said, "The regiment would see to the funeral arrangements."
He had just enough time to catch his balance as the girl threw her arms around his neck with a half chocked sob. With his hand in the sling effectively pinned between them, Athos divided his weight on his toes and used his other hand to awkwardly pat the mass off curls that was obscuring half his view.
"Thank you," she mumbled, "I'm sorry – I –"
Her stammering was drowned out by the loud knock on the door. The person on the outside didn't wait for a reply and knocked again, the punch of urgency was clear in the sound. Athos got to his feet and pulled open the door.
"The Palace," It was Jacques from the garrison, "There's been a robbery at the Palace."
Athos didn't wait to hear further orders sent for him, he was out the door and down in the street before Jacques could follow him. He mounted his horse and once in the saddle he pulled off the sling and stuffed his scarf in his pocket. The voice in his head sounding too much like Aramis berated him for his rash action and Athos was happy to point out that it was all the younger Musketeer's fault anyway.
He reached the Palace before the Musketeers from the garrison. Dismounting smoothly from his ride he scanned the gardens and spotted the red cloaks flapping in the breeze as the guards rushed after something far to the left. Dodging topiaries and jumping over the trimmed lower shrubbery Athos tracked their chase before he ducked into the shadows of the taller hedges.
Raising his pistol in one hand he quietly prowled forwards to the edge of the winding green archway he had found himself in. The sounds of the Red Guards were still at a distance when the dark blur darted past and Athos tackled it to the ground.
The man under him struggled and was about to knock an elbow into Athos' face when the Musketeer hissed at him to stop.
"Just don't," he growled and taking advantage of the younger man's shocked stillness he dragged him into the shadows.
"Athos? What're you – hey!" Aramis reached for the ornate wooden box that Athos pulled free from his grasp.
The Musketeer shoved him back. Athos opened the lid of the box and as he had expected the Comte's seal was nestled there securely in the velvet lined container. He shook his head in disbelief.
"Athos please –" Aramis cast a glance towards the nearing voices of the Guards.
He looked around the hedge then turned to his friend; Athos could read the panic in the brown eyes. He ignored the hands motioning at him to toss the box their way and picked up his discarded pistol. The loud curses of the Red Guards were clearly audible; if they listened closely they could even hear the harsh labored breaths nearly brushing the back of their necks.
"This archway leads to the other end of the garden," Athos said as he ignited the wick of his pistol.
Aramis' eyes rounded when the muzzle of the pistol pointed to his chest.
"Punch me," Athos told him.
"What?"
"Do it!"
Though he had ordered it himself the hit was jarring, the shot went wide like he had planned but Aramis was still there. His friend was leaning over him, brows furrowed in concern and fingers reaching for the smarting cheekbone.
Athos shoved him off again.
"Go," he waved towards the way he had come through the green archway.
Aramis cast him one last look before he disappeared into the shadows of the tall hedges and curling vines. The Red Guards flocked onto Athos the second his friend's receding footfalls had silenced.
"I got the seal," he showed them the box and pointed in the opposite direction, "but he ran off that way,"
The five heavily breathing men gaped at him then looked to each other as though waiting for one of the others to say something or at least make a move towards the box Athos held.
"I don't believe he will find the way to prison himself gentlemen," the Musketeer raised a brow.
That pushed the rather bewildered men into action and Athos watched them with veiled amusement as off they went in the direction he had pointed them to. Putting his pistol back in its holster he rubbed the side of his jaw, it may have been enough to sway his balance but Athos had a feeling that the blow to his face was glancing. There was a high chance that the bruising would be light and effectively hidden under his beard. It was the least his friend could do he decided, after all Athos hadn't particularly asked to be punched in the face, Aramis could have gone for a comfortable gut shot.
Feeling sufficiently ruffled he looked up to see the Comte himself, high in rage with a couple of servants at his heels, making his way towards him. Holding the box in both hands, lid open to show him the seal at the first glance, Athos approached the nobleman.
There was something missing in the streets, she had only been in Paris for a few days and even she could feel it. The stalls were fewer, the haggling half hearted and over quickly, it made her quicken her pace to the shop. She would need a lot of parchment to explain her actions to her aunt and to ask for forgiveness. The small part of her that petulantly didn't want to admit her actions as wrong made her sniffle in aimless anger.
It wasn't fair, her brother had always done what he had wanted to do; no one bothered pointing it out to him that he needed to find a wife and settle down. Maybe someone should have told him she thought, that way she might have been able to find solace in his children.
But no, it was only her that was supposed to find a good husband, a good match, a good catch. As far as her aunt could see that was the only purpose of her existence. She would bloom like a rose her aunt had said like it was the best thing in the world.
But Constance could see that being a rose meant that she would spend the rest of her life like that beautiful flower trapped to dry in the pages of some gentleman's forgotten book. She didn't want to be a dainty, blooming rose, she wanted to be a thistle; growing wild in its tenacity, fearless in its ability to protect itself against those who tried to trample it and eventually get scattered to the winds, only to spark more life somewhere in a far off land.
As she made her way down the cobblestone street, fresh tears stung her eyes and not for the first time in her life she wondered what was wrong with her. Why couldn't she find womanly pursuits like she was supposed to? Why did she wish for a life that wasn't hers and not be thankful for what she had?
She was so deep in her own sorrow that she almost ran into the woman who stumbled out of the alley. Constance rocked on her heels to keep from bumping into her and hastily wiped her tears.
"Help me please," the silver haired woman cried, "It's my son; he won't wake up!"
Constance looked at the dirt streaked face, contorted with distress and nodded immediately. The woman waved her hands, reached out but stopped short with a wince as though she expected the girl to be disgusted by her.
"It's alright," Constance grabbed her hand, "It'll be alright,"
The silver haired woman smiled gratefully and led her into the alley; it was only then that the girl realized the cold touch to be oddly light like the mist. When the world blurred and the silver haired woman grinned, Constance let out a muffled yelp.
It blew out like candle flame in a high window, unheard and unseen.
He didn't have to report to the Captain because the Comte had called him to the Palace and was for once happy with the Musketeer since he had saved a family heirloom. Athos handed the reins of his horse to Jacques, moved past the Musketeers preparing for the mission come night and slipped into Aramis' room without knocking.
"And one for all," he announced as he tossed something on the cot on which his friend was perched, with his elbows on his knees and his head hanging low.
Aramis looked up at him, then back down at the bejeweled seal settled over his scratchy bedcover beside him. His jaw worked as though to find words but he only managed a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sob.
Athos regarded the younger man who still had to touch the seal he had been intent on achieving.
"You could have just let me steal it," Aramis shook his head, "It wouldn't have incriminated you."
"It won't incriminate me," Athos stepped further into the room, "The Comte saw the seal in its box himself before the box was taken away,"
"How…?"
"I was actually paying attention when Porthos was trying to teach you to palm a card," Athos said.
Aramis offered him a sheepish smile. But there was something about the scene that was nagging Athos, it was something about his friend that had been different ever since the disastrous hunting party. Something that had nothing to do with all the knots and tethers nonsense. Athos frowned as he searched his mind to pick out what he felt odd.
His friend's hair had been tied back since he had arrived, he hadn't been wearing his hat and coat, his shirt sleeves were rolled up but he still wore the gloves. It was the gloves that were the oddity here, Athos frowned, he knew the younger man preferred clean hands for tending wounds; besides, gloves made the stitches sloppy.
"Aramis?"
"Hmm?"
His friend picked up the seal to examine it closely and Athos' eyes widened when a soft glow fused out from the rim of the gloves that his friend wore.
Aramis looked down at his hands in wonder.
"I forgot about that," there was nothing happy about his smile.
Athos stood rooted to the spot as he watched his friend grip the edge of a glove finger between his teeth and pull off one, then the other. Pink, blistered, raw skin came to light and his own breath paused as Aramis' breath hitched.
Athos looked from the trembling, burned hands to the face that wouldn't rise to meet his eyes. There was a barely concealed shiver racking the frame of the younger Musketeer and the silence stretched like the draw of a bow.
"I should wash it…" Aramis trailed off as he stood abruptly.
The seal fell from his lap with a soft thud; Aramis bent, picked it up and dropped it with a hiss. It broke through the cold fear and rage that had frozen Athos.
"Sit. Down," he snapped.
Of all the suicidal, insane stunts that these two pulled – they should be glad he was not the screaming type Athos told himself as he rescued the seal again, pushed his friend back to sit on the bed none too gently and stalked out of the room.
He was seething as he made his way to the infirmary from where he filled a large bowl of clean water, grabbed a roll of bandages and the essence of aloe before he made his way back to Aramis' room. He glared at the rather terrified looking young man. He could feel the eyes tracking him as he placed everything on the table beside his friend's bed and hooked the chair closer with the toe of his boot.
"Athos –"
"Not a word," he growled.
Balancing the half full bowl of water in his lap he gently wrapped his fingers around the wrist of one damaged hand and carefully guided it to the water. The pull against his hold had him glancing up and he didn't miss the flash of fear that crossed those widened brown eyes.
Something stuck in his throat and the older Musketeer wished that Porthos was there.
"When he was little," Athos paused and cleared his throat, "My brother would end up getting stung by nettle a lot, yours is much worse but I'd say that's what happened."
Aramis nodded but remained silent.
Athos was afraid he would draw blood from where the younger man was biting his lip. Slowly and carefully he maneuvered both hands into the water and tried to pretend that he hadn't heard the tiny whimper that had escaped his friend.
"Why didn't you –"
"I couldn't,"
"Why didn't you tell me?" Athos finished his question.
He was already drowning in his anger at himself for not noticing, for not asking, for not considering that there was something seriously wrong with his friend and it hurt him somewhere deep that Aramis hadn't bothered to share it with him.
Anger, like the thrum of a charged air of a stormfront, quivered through his veins and it was all Athos could do not to punch something. Not when he cradled his friend's shaking hand between both his own. Pushing down the urge to find the culprit of this injury and slice her open with his sword, Athos placed the bowl between his feet. Not looking up from his work, he softly applied the essence of aloe over what remained of the blistery white skin that was dotted with small red spots in places.
Then they just sat there until the shivering in Aramis' hands lessened and Athos finally let them go. He stood up to clear the things when Aramis spoke up.
"You needed distance," he said, "I don't blame you for wanting that, anyone would after what you saw. I would want distance from what I am," Aramis shook his head and sucked in a breath, "And you were already afraid of me and I didn't want to …."
"You thought I wouldn't care," Athos closed his eyes momentarily and silently cursed the Weaver for coming into their lives.
"She wanted it to be a reminder," Aramis stared down at his hands, "But when I got here I forgot. When the Captain told me about Porthos and that Shredder…."
Athos came back to sit in the chair before his friend, this time with the bandages though he knew that he shouldn't wrap this injury. He would wait until the skin had cooled, he would wait until sundown, give it as much time as he could but he couldn't risk chafing the skin clear of the hands. Because Aramis would need to use his hands when the two of them would go to save Porthos.
The twitch in Aramis' hunched shoulders had him reaching out with a hand callused by years of fencing that settled over the back of the younger man's neck. He gave it a reassuring squeeze. It seemed to break the hold of the silence that had settled and Aramis finally looked Athos in the eye.
"I'm sorry," he chocked out, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…."
Athos pulled him close until their foreheads connected, he held on as his friend clenched his eyes shut but still failed to keep the few silent tears from escaping out of the corner of his eyes. He did not let go until the soft trembling in the younger man subsided and even when he pulled back he still gripped Aramis' shoulder.
Blue gaze met brown.
"As am I my friend," Athos said, "As am I."
TBC
Yes that happened. I'm sorry if it comes off as out of character, I tried not to make it too sappy but there you go.