WARNING for language, blood and medical inaccuracies.

He could feel the shrill vibrations of the alarms in his teeth.

The wall was cold and hard where his friend had shoved him back at the last moment; it was in stark contrast to the fire spreading out in his ribs and Athos glanced down to find the bolt's head more than halfway buried in his chest. Only the blood coated tail end of the gleaming metal was visible.

His breath hitched.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

And the din around him swelled up like a vengeful bubble; magnifying the streaks of light piercing through the broken windows to ignite the dust and rust in the air as the sun touched the horizon outside. He looked up into his brother's eyes that were wide, pupils dilated in pain with only a rim of cognac brown visible around them.

The wailing of alarms stretched out and thinned, leaving a much louder silence in its wake. Aramis stumbled where he stood and Athos held onto his forearms even tighter, the need to push him away from seconds before encompassed by the sudden desire to hold on.

A soft gasp escaped his brother and the suspended time was suddenly sucked back into motion.

The sound of his own ragged breaths echoed in his head and fear spiked in his belly as Aramis' head dropped forwards. Athos reached out with trembling blood speckled hands and bracing it from each side lifted the head back up. His terrified eyes roamed over the face where pain was written in the thin line of pursed lips and in the pinched corners of closed eyes.

"What have you done?" his voice was low and trembling.

Aramis' jaw twitched under his palm until the man let a go a slow exhale.

Dark eyes fluttered open.

"I – I was –" Aramis began but fear swiftly washed out the agony in that gaze, "Athos!"

Athos followed his line of sight to where the bolt had come to rest and watched the hands from his shoulders slide down to shakily hover over the wound in his chest. He winced when one of the hands rested near the point where the metal was imbedded in his flesh, Athos could feel the points of it grating against his ribs and bit back a hiss.

"You don't taste blood do you?" Aramis swallowed thickly and looked up at his face before glancing back down, "did it get to your lung?"

"I should be asking you that,"

Aramis' breathing was shallow but deliberately measured.

"How bad Aramis?" Athos asked, eyes trailing to the bolt.

It had struck to the right side of his back, in his shoulder, and had exited at a lower point to the side of his chest. There wasn't a great deal of blood but Athos was well aware that there could be much more damage than met the eye.

"How bad?"

Aramis frowned and let his right hand slide down from Athos' chest to hang by his side.

"It missed everything vital I think,"

"You think?" Athos bit out as he let go of the face and clasping his brother's uninjured shoulder stopped just shy of shaking the man, "you think? When do you ever think?"

An upwards twist appeared at the corner of Aramis' lips.

"Well there was that one time…"

Athos silently dared him to finish the sentence.

Aramis ducked his head.

A hollow clang of the plastic barrel dropping to the floor rang out from beyond and startled Athos, the jerk left both men wincing and holding onto each other. Pacing his breath against the latest jolt of pain he let his head fall back against the wall and caught sight of d'Artagnan who stared back at him with unshed tears bright in his eyes.

"Help get Porthos over here," he told the young hacker.

D'Artagnan hurried over to the big man who had a hand pressed against the pillar as he swayed up to his feet. Wrapping one of Porthos' arms around his shoulders he helped him over to the other two, staggering under the weight of the man who tripped over his own feet in a mixture of haste and dizziness.

Carefully he helped the man sit onto the dusty floor with his back to the wall.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," it fell from his lips in torrents.

"I'll take 'at 'fore y' cut open either 'f us," Porthos took the switchblade that d'Artagnan hadn't thought about discarding in his urgency, " 'an what're you sorry about?" asked the man.

Shaking his head the young one wiped an arm over his reddening eyes and braced a hand against the side of his ribs as he straightened. Scared dark eyes sought out Athos' but it was Thomas' face that abruptly flashed before his eyes; it was all he could do to not lose his precious footing at the punch to the gut that memory was.

"Is he – is he dead," d'Artagnan asked.

The dark head that had fallen forward again rose up at the inquiry and Aramis offered him a tight smile.

"Stuck rather firmly to the here and now I would say," he breathed out.

Athos' eyes narrowed in seething rage and his fingers dug into the man's shoulder with enough force to make him wince.

"Please refrain from horrible puns until I can punch you to the floor for them," he said.

"Y've made 'im truly mad now 'Mis," Porthos tilted his head up a bit, a sliver of a single eye becoming visible, "can't blame 'im though."

The sight of his friend's damaged face left the simmering anger in Athos' veins burning hotter, these two idiots were here because they had come looking for him and now one was impaled and the other beaten senseless. He clenched his jaw shut to keep from screaming at them and reminded himself that it was something he would have done for either of them if the roles were reversed. Then there was d'Artagnan whose eyes trailed over the silver shaft that disappeared into one body only to appear on its other side and disappear into another.

The young man shook his head slowly.

"You're insane," he said.

Athos felt Porthos shift closer to him, felt the solid press of his shoulder by his knee and glanced down at his friend who was silently offering support. His eyes stung for reasons far from the pain coursing like shockwaves under his skin and he let his good leg rest against his brother, relieved to have him take the weight when he needed something desperately to lean on.

"You're all completely insane," d'Artagnan was staring at them with one hand in his hair and the other on his hip.

The look on his face reminded Athos of their Captain.

"Did you call for backup?" he asked.

"I called Treville before coming in,"

Porthos grunted in painful amusement, his head rolling against the wall as he closed his eyes.

" 'ee'll flay us f'r this,"

"We're already skewered," Aramis eyes slid down to him, "and you look like you went a few rounds with a meat tenderizer, we've done half his work for him it seems."

" 'an now y'r makin' me hungry,"

Aramis gave a chocked laugh before his eyes clenched shut at the movement; the latent vibrations travelled down the bolt and shoot up the agony from where the point was buried in Athos' flesh.

"Stop moving you stubborn fool,"

"Sorry,"

"Isn't that a comforting sentiment," it slipped out before Athos could stop it.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you can do whatever the hell you want and then it's all alright because you're sorry,"

"You my friend have a weird way of showing gratitude,"

"And you have less sense of self-preservation than a single cell organism!" it wasn't fair Athos knew that but his pain addled thoughts needed focus and anger was good; it was better than the fear and utter helplessness that was churning in him, "In case it's something you cannot comprehend, you're supposed to get out of the way of the sharp objects flying your way!"

The shout ended in a gasp.

Athos' eyes widened as he pressed a hand flat to his chest.

It burned like his ribs were made of shattered glass that shifted and cut with every inhale and exhale. He shook his head slowly to somehow tamp down the desperate need pull in a huge breath because there wasn't enough air in his lungs, the shallow breaths were not enough; he needed more.

His head swam and a tickle erupted at the back of his throat.

Athos clenched his eyes shut to keep from coughing.

He jumped in his skin when a rough palm settled at the side of his neck; long fingers gave it a gentle squeeze and pulled him forwards. His head dipped and Aramis met him halfway, stopping when their foreheads knocked together and his brother held him there.

Solid, present, alive.

Athos hadn't even realized he had been shivering until it began dispersing from his wrung out muscles. The invisible vice around his chest eased slowly and the multiple aches receded to a manageable level. He felt the brush of dry lips against his clammy forehead and tears sprung in his eyes.

"Not when it means they will hit your brother," Aramis said.

D'Artagnan swallowed hard and turned his blurry eyes to his shoes.

This is what he could have destroyed in his blindness. Could have taken Athos from the people to whom he mattered so much and who mattered so much to him.

His eyes flicked down to where Porthos' side was pressed against Athos' good leg offering it much needed support; and then up to where Aramis held Athos by the shoulder while the man himself had his fingers tangled in Aramis' sleeves.

He had heard stories of friendships that ran deeper than blood and brotherhoods that mattered more than life, witnessing it was a different thing altogether.

D'Artagnan stared back at the floor.

"I saw s'm crates the las' time I was in th's room," Porthos' voice cut through to him, "Can y' get one d'Art?"

He nodded and turned away without a word, scowling at the tears that had slipped past his defenses. It was the sense of familiarity in the shortened name these men had taken to call him that unexpectedly struck some hollowed point in his heart and left a salty lump in his throat. Even the people who knew him outside of his criminal persona, like Signor Enzo, knew a false identity. But these men hadn't just seen him for who he was; they had somehow accepted it and deemed it worthy of familiarity.

He picked up two of the empty wooden crates left by the door to the shop-floor and made his way back in time to catch Aramis' wink at Porthos, although he had a feeling the big man did not catch it.

"I'm just saying when a concussed man has better ideas than you; it says something about your leadership mon frère,"

Athos glared at the man before him but turned to d'Artagnan as he approached. Porthos too shifted where he had tipped his head back against the wall and d'Artagnan winced at his attempt to open his one eye that would take the command.

"On th' 'ther side," the man told him, "un'r 'is dam'g'd f't,"

He moved to comply, arranging them in a way that would support the broken ankle that had been left suspended in the air far too long. The relief in the blue eyes that watched him was palpable and d'Artagnan ducked his head. This was after all his fault.

"A crowbar," Athos said, "I keep one in the boot of my car, it can pry this manacle lose from the wall."

"I'll get it,"

"And my bag," Aramis added, "it might help,"

D'Artagnan knew the bag he was talking about. Casting one last look at the three of them he hurried off, choosing not to assure them that the car wasn't far like they had left it. Across the double doors he moved as fast as his limited range of breath allowed him. But he had just moved past the redundant elevators when d'Artagnan had to pause with his arm cradled the side of his chest as a he pressed a hand to the wall for support, damaged ribs aching at the activity.

Ignoring the sweat that broke out over his forehead he squinted at the sight of two men lying in red patches at the foot of the staircase beyond.

Guilt swelled in the form of bile to his throat and he could feel the weight of the weapon that had been in his hand. He had taken a shot, fired once and he hadn't seen where that bullet had gone. D'Artagnan leaned a shoulder against the wall and forced himself to look past the limp figures.

Gathering his thoughts together lest they swirled into remorse he took as deep a breath as he could and pushed on; breaking into a jog when he felt his conscience give chase. There was no time for that now and d'Artagnan forced himself to keep his focus on the task at hand. He staggered through the main door of the abandoned factory and squinted against the receding sunlight.

Ignoring the car stuck to the wall he focused on the one he had come for.

Athos would never forgive him he mused as he stumbled toward his vehicle.

Finding the crowbar was easy and d'Artagnan tried not to wonder why the man carried it around, his imagination wasn't a happy place at the best of times and after what he had witnessed he could only conjure up the stuff of nightmare.

But the crowbar did prove useful instantly when he found that the he couldn't reach the foot-space in the front from the backseat and the door to the front passenger side refused to open. Wedging the end of the metal rod in the edge between the door and its frame he levered it with all his strength, gasping out a prayer of thanks when the door swung open.

His hands shook as he extracted the bag and landed back on his bottom clutching both the items.

A shadow fell near his feet, crawling up at his legs until he was completely enveloped.

D'Artagnan looked up to find Dujon staring down at him from over the muzzle of his gun.

"The Hound was it?"

He didn't reply, he didn't think, d'Artagnan swung the crowbar as far as he could with his damaged ribs and struck the man in the leg. His howl of pain broke through the quiet and d'Artagnan scrambled to his feet, reacting now only upon instincts. Breathing heavily, he shook off the dizziness that threatened to take him and moved towards the building.

He had only rounded around Athos' car when a harsh jerk to his ankle found the ground rushing to meet him. The impact knocked the breath out of his chest and he curled in on himself, arms wrapping around his torso.

"You have been more trouble than you're worth mutt," Dujon limped over to him, his face twisted into a deep scowl, "It'll be my pleasure to put you to sleep,"

And in a span of single day d'Artagnan found himself staring death in the face again.

The little finger in his right hand, the only one not swollen, twitched against the stab of pain that pulsed down from his shoulder. The headache that had been a constant since he had come around to face a tied up Porthos was white noise to the tiny spasms that broke into the muscles at his back.

But he had not lied to his brother, the bolt had pierced through his scapula but at an angle that he was sure had saved the major vein and artery there. It had clipped his ribs on the way out if he was to judge by the pain in his breath but there were no telltale signs of lung puncture.

He had known that Mendoza relished in stretching the pain of the people at his mercy and Aramis found it ironic how it seemed to have worked in their favor every time, even while getting shot with one of his many bolts.

His eyes drifted down to the wound in his front that he had expected to be larger than it was, before they shifted to the tip that had struck Athos. The silver bolt-head was no thicker than the shaft, for which he was quietly thankful, but even from the distance he could tell it was serrated; the tiny dents were vicious in an otherwise sharp metal end that looked like it was melded onto the shaft. He had seen field points less sleek than this and knew Mendoza had wanted Athos to suffer long before succumbing to his wounds.

"Hey, no zoning out on me," Athos' raspy voice filtered through and even as he lifted his head a hand squeezed the back of his neck.

Aramis frowned as his brother withdrew his grasp quickly; he almost winced at the murderous look that flashed on Athos' face.

"There's blood on your neck,"

"Oh," he would have nodded if he hadn't been afraid of throwing up, "got knocked on my head,"

To his relief Athos' attention was snagged by Porthos as the man shifted where he sat.

" tis alm'st like 'e knew we'r comin' "

Aramis stared down at his friend, the man's slurring words had been tightening the knot of worry in his gut and he wished that the Captain's reinforcements would get to them soon. But until then he had to keep Porthos awake.

"How do you know that?"

"N't many guards…"

"That's because he's over confident," Aramis countered.

"Repulsively so," Athos agreed.

Aramis glanced down when no retort was forthcoming.

"C'mon Porthos," he licked his lips and tried to keep his voice steady, "why do you think he knew?"

Porthos gave him a one eyed glare that broke something in him for reasons that had nothing to do with intimidation. His left hand tightened into a fist and he was sure the right would had followed if it had been able to.

"Knew we'r with the pup,"

"Could have guessed," Athos hazarded.

His hand had found a place in Porthos' hair; fingertips lightly scratching the scalp like one would of a cat. Aramis caught his eyes and found his own worry reflected there, his brother was trying his best to keep the big man in the present with them.

"Seemed pretty sure ta me," Porthos gave an aborted shrug, " 'side'z called 'Mis the violent one,"

He had opened his mouth to counter but Aramis clicked it shut abruptly. It dawned on him that his friend was right, Mendoza had known about it all, almost like he had been informed before they could get here.

"Dujon," he whispered.

"What?"

Blue eyes met brown.

Athos was already angry at him and he knew what he said next would only fan the flames. And yet it was the only way he could see this working. Pulling in a steadying breath he lifted his left hand and grasped his brother by the shoulder.

"I have to go after him,"

"Who're you talking about?"

"d'Artagnan; he's alone and we didn't find Dujon here but he must have contacted Mendoza before we arrived –"

"Aramis,"

"If the police didn't get to Dujon he would make his way here –"

"– and d'Artagnan had gone out alone," Athos ended in a whisper.

"I have to –"

"No," Athos shook his head only to stop with a harsh inhale, bracing the wound in his chest.

The ripples of pain around the bolt stuck in him turned to waves and Aramis stilled, closing his eyes to ride out the agony rolling down his back, unfurling to the tips of his fingers and settling in his chest.

"Porthos' concussed and you're trapped," his voice didn't betray the fear the words caused him.

"And you have a bloody arrow pinning you in place!"

"So we let the kid die?"

Athos' face was white, lips almost bloodless as he pursed them in distaste while the searing blue flames of his eyes took on a desperate edge; it was that more than anything that frightened Aramis.

"Fine," Athos said, "take this out."

Aramis stopped the hands that were reaching for the arrow head.

"You can pull it out and –"

"It's serrated Athos, it will do more damage if I pull it out," he explained as calmly as he could while his own heart rate picked up speed over the plan, "I'd try to get it off the shaft but it looks like its melded and the lung damage that we saved? There is a very high chance I might accidently puncture that lung."

Aramis' good hand shook as it wrapped around the shaft near the exit wound at his side, teeth clenched for to keep from the inevitable screaming.

"Never pull out the object embedded in the wound," Athos spoke as if he was reciting from a book.

"Very good," he prized the fact that his voice didn't tremble, "but I'm taking a chance that the damage isn't that bad since Mendoza looked for maximum pain instead of a quick kill."

"Aramis…"

"Besides, this way I'll just be using the route the bolt had made," he said, "no extra damage."

Athos looked pale and drawn, there was such a look of betrayal in his gaze that Aramis closed his eyes against it as he tightened his hold on the shaft, his right hand coming up to brace it from near the tip lest he accidently stabbed his brother.

"Wait," it was just above a whisper.

Athos tapped Porthos on the head.

"Wha –"

"Give me the switch blade,"

Aramis smiled at the ever tactical mind of his brother but it was lost to the pointed way Athos refused to look at his face. His jaw was clenched shut as he reached behind Aramis to the other end of the shaft and cleaved off the plastic vanes.

"Thank you,"

Athos ignored the words as he closed the blade and tossed it in Porthos' lap, gently tapping him on the head.

"No sleeping," he said.

Aramis bit his lip at the silent fury directed his way and pulling in a bracing breath he closed his eyes and pulled. A ragged chocked scream tore from him as the aluminum and carbon stick freed from his flesh and he staggered back to hit a spots danced in his vision as the world rocked like a boat tangled in waves. Sweat and tears mixed on his face to soak his beard while tremors coursed through his body. His side burned like someone had poured molten lead in his open wound and the sticky wetness spread quickly down his back and front.

When his gaze settled it was to the sight of raw fear in Athos' eyes fixed on him. His friend was pressed back against the wall, one arm wrapped around his lower ribs.

"Still alive," Aramis breathed out.

"By no effort on your part," Athos' voice was ice.

"Pup's righ' we're bl'dy insane," Porthos observed, although Aramis was sure both his brother's eyes had swollen shut by now.

The comment still brought a chuckle out of him and if it was riding on the endorphins his brain was flooding in his system to counter the pain, he didn't care. Pushing his wounded arm to the pillar he forced his feet under him and stood swaying. He plucked off the crossbow stuck to the pillar and half walked half stumbled down the way d'Artagnan had disappeared. Not concerned by the trail of crimson drops he left in his wake.

Crossing the hall he discarding the crossbow and went for one of the guns of the bound guards. Even as the move left him dizzy a smirk played on his lips as the trussed up men shifted away from him in wide eyed fear.

And like the butcher ghost of an abandoned meat factory Aramis drifted on.

He was in the lobby when a pain filled howl broke the air.

Cursing under his breath in five different languages Aramis pushed ahead until he came to the threshold. Leaning against the doorframe he took a second to adjust to the light and decipher the scene. When it clicked in his sluggish brain that it was d'Artagnan on the ground, Aramis raised the weapon and fired.

Dujon fell on his side screaming.

Aramis was hard-pressed to join him; his shoulder was killing him too despite the numbness that was taking slow hold of his body.

"Aramis?" someone slapped him, "Aramis, shit – you stupid bloody idiot – Aramis!"

"What?" he snapped.

"Don't close your eyes," d'Artagnan said, "tell me what to do!"

Aramis glanced at the man moaning on the ground beyond and frowned when he realized he too had landed on his butt somewhere in the recent past.

"Huh,"

"C'mon! I have your bag –"

"His weapon –"

"I have it," d'Artagnan said.

Aramis nodded.

The boy slapped him again.

"If this is the thanks I get –!"

His words broke off in a groan as something pressed hard against his wound.

"Then don't close your eyes and tell me what I need to do!"

The grin was no effort at the boy's frantic demands.

"You're doing right," he clumsily patted the hand holding the bandage to his front, "put another one at the back and tape it up."

He watched in a detached sort of interest as the young man did as he was asked and knew on some level that this floating sensation was not good. His thoughts were pulled back to the present when the sound of retching found him.

Aramis blearily stared at the groaning boy who was hunched over as though trying to curl into himself. He winced in sympathy at the pain he knew broken ribs could be and decided to offer the cold packs in his bag; but words eluded him. The loss of his impressive vocabulary didn't panic him as it should have as the dark spots from before returned with a vengeance, forcing him to close his eyes.

The distant cry of sirens spread through the evening and Aramis drifted off like a leaf in autumn air.

There was a hammer pounding in his head, an industrial sized hammer wielded by someone much too enthusiastic.

The softness under him was a surprise, so was the blessed coolness against his face, but the familiar presence by his side was not. His head felt huge for his neck and a groan escaped Porthos as he shifted, seeking the cool soft pressure that had lifted off his face.

"Porthos?"

He opened his eyes a crack and winced. The light around him was too much and with the cold barrier gone from over his skin he could see the colors swirling at the back of his eyelids. It triggered the nausea lurking behind the headache.

"Hold on,"

The sound of tiny wheels on tiled floor trickled into his awareness before the lights went out. Porthos sighed in relief. This time when he untangled his eyelashes to peek at his surroundings it was to find a shadow looming near him. Blinking slowly he worked through the blurs until a face framed with wild curls took form out of the soft glow that countered the dark.

"Hey," Aramis smiled.

Questions popped like fireworks in his mind but he only got as far as to lick his lips before his friend continued.

"We all got out –at the hospital back in London and…it's around midnight,"

"A –" he cleared his throat.

Aramis brought a straw to his lips and he relished the cool water that washed away the taste of dry cotton from his mouth.

"All of us made it – yes even the pup – no the Captain hadn't come around yet."

Porthos pushed the glass away and squinted up at his brother who had sat forward to pick up the cold pack. He almost went back to sleep at the relief that spread from the side of his face where it touched.

"You a psychic now?" he muttered.

Aramis stopped and pulled away abruptly.

Porthos very nearly growled at the loss of the frozen respite.

"Porthos?"

"You're expecting someone else?"

"You're really awake this time," Aramis grinned.

There were tendrils of the alien warmth of medication still in his system but he wasn't too far gone to not be able to give a pointed glare to his brother. Nor was he blind to the relief that had softened the too dark eyes in the dim light.

"I'm fine," he said.

Aramis resumed his ministration of the cold pack with a sharp nod.

"Of course you are,"

Porthos searched his brothers face in the near darkness, the coiled tension in the words hadn't been lost on him.

"I knew I could take it,"

"Never doubted you,"

The honesty in that statement rang loud but the grip on the cold pack faltered minutely and Aramis cursed under his breath. Porthos lifted a hand and took over the job, dabbing the chilled polythene to the worst of throbs. Aramis sat back and Porthos felt long fingers coming to encircle the wrist of his free hand.

"That doesn't make it easier to watch," Porthos offered.

Aramis shook his head, a sheepish smile edging on his face.

"No it doesn't," he let go of Porthos and ran a hand through his hair, "I've seen you concussed too many times hermano mio but it never gets easier. And what Mendoza did – I wanted to rip his arms off."

Porthos had seen the desire clearly in his brother's eyes and even concussed he could remember the controlled violence with which Aramis had sprung for freedom when Mendoza had been startled by the crash outside the building.

"You got your revenge,"

"I did," the grim smile was a touch brutal.

Not wanting to dwell on the darkness that seeped into his brother's eyes Porthos blindly deposited the cold pack on the table beside his bed and shifted a little to wriggle up at the incline under his back. As the pulsing in his head ebbed back to a manageable level he offered a smile that pulled rather painfully at his face.

"So what's the damage?" he asked.

"Well the nose wasn't set immediately so that'll remain crooked, they had to shave near the hairline to put in the stitches but the hair will grow back in time. And I'm sure we'll be able to sort the problem of missing teeth at least,"

Porthos stared at the ceiling as he considered the list, it was the image of a shaved patch of hair that made him wince internally but he mused that missing teeth would be a bigger problem. And then he stopped short at the thought, a frown threatened to break out over his sore face as he remembered that the last time he had his wits about him he had a full set of teeth.

His eyes slanted towards a grinning Aramis.

"You're lucky I'm seeing two of you right now," Porthos growled.

"You are?" Aramis shifted closer in blatant concern.

Porthos smiled despite the pain it cost him.

"Nah…"

"I see the concussion didn't leave a lasting damage," Aramis chuckled as he squeezed his shoulder, "and the swelling is going down too; you're using both your eyes in case you didn't notice."

Porthos would have rolled his eyes if he hadn't been worried of the dizzy spell waiting in the wings. He was about to inquire after others when Aramis shifted a bit to the side and Porthos squinted against the glow that fell on him. It took him a minute to recognize it was the light over the other bed in the room. The bed that was occupied by Athos, his face looking flushed and gaunt as the machine on his other side gave off a steady beat.

"The surgeries were successful, bones will heal with time." Aramis said, "It's the infection that'll be a problem. With the damage to his ribs the coughing would be hell,"

"The bolt wound?" Porthos asked.

"The near drowning," Aramis said, "they're trying to control the fever but at least it's not as bad as it could be," his eye were still fixed on his sleeping brother.

But Porthos' gaze had drifted from the brother sleeping afar to the one sitting near. He saw the ashen color that Aramis' face had taken and as the soft glow threw his features in sharp relief the shadows under his eyes became obvious. His right arm was in a sling, the bulk of bandages around his side and shoulder forming a distorted silhouette. His eyes traveled to the splinted fingers of the right hand before they flicked to the needle in the back of his left, it was linked to the IV on the stand by his side. It was this, Porthos noted, that he had heard before the lights had been switched off in the room.

" 'Mis…"

Dark eyes full of warmth and concern turned to him immediately.

"You stubborn bastard," it reverberated into a subhuman growl, "you should be in bed!"

He had no idea who he was angrier at, himself for not registering that Aramis had been badly wounded or at the idiot who wasn't acting like it. Memories of another time they had accidently overlooked their brother's pain flashed in his mind and Porthos fists clenched at the stupidity of it all.

Aramis shrugged his good shoulder.

"The surgery went fine and like I said bones heal,"

"So what? You singed out AMA?"

He was loud enough to have Athos shifting in his sleep.

It took a few minutes for Porthos to register the sound of door opening and the newcomer was already into the room by the time recognition dawned. Porthos hated being concussed, hated his senses being dulled to such an extent.

"He tried to, but we found a compromise." Lemay closed the door behind him, "And he'll be on babysitting duty most of the time during his recovery to pay me back for the strings I had to pull for this one."

"You say like it's a bad thing," Aramis opened the plastic container the doctor tossed in his lap.

But Porthos refused to be sidetracked.

"Explain," he said, ignoring the nausea that was stirred by the smell of the sandwich Aramis had bit into.

"He takes the meds, lets the nurses monitor his health and he gets to stay in this room," Lemay nodded to the tall backed seat Aramis was sitting in, "hence the recliner,"

Porthos had come across the doctor as Aramis' friend from the university. He had no idea what lay beneath the depth of this loyalty these two held for each other but he was immensely grateful for it. It was a relief to know that there was someone else looking out for his brother.

"Thank you," Porthos hoped he could convey his gratitude in the two words.

The doctor nodded and raised a brow at Aramis who had started on the next sandwich.

"And that Aramis is an example of good manners," he said.

"And I shall endeavor every day to rid him of them," Aramis grinned unrepentant with the bread crumbs on his face.

"I understand now why I never liked your company," Lemay made a face as he gave the two men a studying look and moved towards the door, "Now I'm heading home and if I get one call because of you Aramis, an abused bolt wound would be the least of your worries."

Aramis pressed his hand to his heart looking affronted.

"I already gave you my word Georgey,"

"That's Doctor Lemay," the man snapped back even as he exited.

Porthos settled back against the mound of pillows at his back and watched Aramis laugh quietly as he brushed the crumbs away. While he was glad that his friend had at least half listened to reason it still didn't sooth his righteous demand to see the man relaxed and tucked in for the night at least.

"You do know that you were shot through with a crossbow bolt?"

"I waited until the anesthesia wore off," Aramis rubbed his hand over his face, "but I couldn't let them trap me in my head with all the medication. Not after what I had seen,"

Porthos frowned; he had assumed that after his round with Mendoza his friend would have found peace at the man's actions. But then he saw that far off look in Aramis' eyes and reached to clasp his fingers, silently guiding his brother back from the white clearing he knew that haunted him.

"I was scared," Aramis looked back at him,"I needed to have you all before my eyes."

Porthos had a feeling that something had happened at the factory that he wasn't aware of, something that had brought that wild terror back to his brother's eyes. The terror that had only just begun to recede from their nights. But it was the rigid set to his jaw that told him how difficult it was for Aramis to admit what he had. In this Porthos decided he could at least ease the tension and a slow, teasing grin appeared on his face.

"All of us?" he asked.

Aramis smirked and nodded towards the long sofa on the other side of Athos' bed that Porthos hadn't paid mind to. Now that he raised his head for a closer look he found d'Artagnan with his mouth open and head thrown back over the backrest, fast asleep.

A fond smile broke on his face at the sight.

"The pup's wiped out," Aramis said.

"He has the right idea," said Porthos, "why don't you give sleep a try?"

"You know me; we're not exactly friends sleep and I,"

" 'Mis?"

"hmm..?"

"Shut up,"

The call had been terrifying but not entirely unexpected.

He had been calling Leon even before Serge had traced d'Artagnan's phone to the abandoned factory. It had only been a matter of fabricating a story before he could dispatch the help he was sure would be needed. After all, he knew his men and it seemed that d'Artagnan was cut from the same cloth; he had the mangled mess of Athos' car to prove it.

None of them did anything halfway.

He went over his statement again; one that explained how d'Artagnan in a spirit to help had offered his services and used Treville's permission to go through Mendoza's life until he had spotted the abandoned factory, where the Captain had sent his men to check if it was worth reporting. Making sure there were no loop holes left, he signed the paper and handed it to Leon.

"Thank you," he said as the other man stuck the paper in a folder, "for everything,"

"It's not a lie that they could still be in danger," Leon shrugged, "and it's your man stuck outside the door, I just had to wave my badge."

But the Captain couldn't explain how much it meant to him to have access to his men in the hospital even at this hour. He had always believed in taking care of his employees and he would deny it till he was blue in the face that these three were just a bit more than employees. And then there was d'Artagnan...

Captain Treville shook his head held out his hand.

Leon appeared dead on his feet but his grip was firm.

"I am sorry for your loss," Treville said.

The clipped nod held a world of grief.

"Your men found him Captain," Leon tucked his folders under his arm, "they restored Cornet's reputation and at this point it's the best I could have asked for,"

They parted ways with another handshake and the Captain went to check on his men for the first time since they had woken up in recovery. Standing in the elevator he closed his eyes and let the fleeting sensation of weightlessness lift the anxiety that had been clinging to him all day.

The scene he had come upon in that factory, the rush to get his men stabilized at the nearest hospital and the near fight that it had been to get them back to this hospital in London had left him wrung out. The surgeons had been amazed by their findings and had insisted to tell him that if the bolt-head had been a mere millimeters longer Athos' lung would have been punctured and how despite all the swelling at the man's broken ankle he still gets to keep his toes. Or how Porthos had escaped with his temporal arteries intact and d'Artagnan hadn't found an organ pierced from his broken ribs. And he couldn't forget the insanity that was Aramis' wound, refusing to accept for a long while that the worst the man suffered from was excessive blood loss. Had the bolt been thicker, the bolt-head different, or the trajectory changed a centimeter his man would have lost the arm if not his life. As it was, the doctors were cautiously optimistic he would not need a bone graft.

Treville startled as the elevator pinged to a stop.

Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose he strode into the quite corridor. The room his men shared was straight ahead and as he neared Treville found that the wide window that opened inside hadn't had the blinds drawn. His brisk pace came to a gradual halt as he studied the sleeping form of Athos before turning his gaze to Porthos. He watched as Aramis got to his feet and coaxed d'Artagnan to lie down on the sofa, tucking a pillow under his side.

As the man rolled the IV stand at his side back to his recliner Treville found that he couldn't move.

Lucky the doctors had called them, how each one of them was lucky.

But Treville knew better; they weren't individually blessed with extraordinary good luck. They were ordinary men with the good and the bad. It was simply that they shared it amongst each other, spreading the good and stretching the bad so that the former would grow and the latter would disperse.

His legs shook as he took the few steps he needed to collapse into one of the chairs lining the wall of the corridor. Treville pressed his elbows on his knees and dropped his head in his hands. Luck had found him these men when he could have never imagined being able to put faces to the names when he had first heard them. Now d'Artagnan had found his way to him.

Treville squeezed his eyes shut and tried to gather his wandering thoughts. The weight of his past was a heavy one and he hoped he could find a path for them all.

TBC

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