TMTMTM

The first time Porthos realised that flowers could be more than just bitter memories they were working an escort mission that had crumbled to disaster.

The ambush came late in the morning, the Spanish envoy's carriage surrounded by a mob of angry citizens who were opposed to the idea of peace between the long established enemies of France and Spain. The three of them fought to defend the carriage against men barely armed with tools and candlesticks. Bad timing had the only assailant carrying a pistol fire at the carriage window at the same moment that Aramis stepped up to defend it.

The bullet caught the marksman in the chest and he fell to the ground, clearing the crowd with his fall. It was Porthos's roar that scattered them completely and they melted away in the face of murdering a musketeer.

Porthos rushed to his friend's side, gathering him in his arms. Expecting to find him dead.

Aramis gasped as he was lifted off the cobblestones, his frame shaking on coughs as Porthos cradled him to his chest.

Athos joined them, the blue of his gaze turned to storm. "Aramis?" he queried.

Aramis struggled with another breath. "Here," he managed.

Athos pried away Porthos's hand to assess the wound beneath, pressing the fabric of Aramis's coat to see into the wound that had opened a little to the right but square on the chest.

"It doesn't look deep. Can you breathe?"

"Ahhsk me… later," Aramis choked, arching in Porthos's grip.

Porthos waited for more coughing, worried for damaged lungs. His friend's breathing was indeed ragged, but it seemed the ball had lodged between his ribs without going through. It should have killed him outright instead – perhaps the shot had been poorly packed. Porthos's relief was tempered by the blood flowing from the wound as it ran down Aramis's chest to soak into the blue sash around his waist.

"We need to tend this. I'll fetch the envoy, wait here a moment. We're going to that house there." Athos pointed to the nearest doorstep.

Porthos clung to Aramis, muttering nonsense in his ear as his friend trembled and blinked tears from his eyes.

Athos prompted the envoy out of the carriage and ushered the man to the door, eyes alert for lingering threats. The door of the two-story building opened and Athos moved his shoulder into the gap, the stern nature of his tone reaching Porthos's ears but not the words themselves.

Athos waved to signal their readiness and Porthos lifted Aramis into his arms like he would a child. Aramis groaned, his head falling to Porthos's chest, a hand fisted in the shoulder of his coat.

"Stay awake," Porthos said, "Just stay awake 'Mis."

"Trying," Aramis gasped.

The owner of the house was an older gentleman. One glimpse of Aramis and he bustled them upstairs to a small bedroom with sunlight streaming through an open window. "It was my daughter's room," he spoke softly, a sadness in the words, "She wouldn't have minded. She had a heart that was true and kind before all else."

Porthos laid Aramis on the bed and panicked as he felt his friend go limp.

Then he realised his friend's gaze was locked on the windowsill where a clay vase held fresh-cut daisies. Porthos reached to take the vase away but Aramis caught his sleeve to stop him.

Athos burst into the room with water, linen, and everything else they would need.

Porthos climbed carefully over Aramis to sit on the bed between him and the wall, ready to hold him down as Athos prepared to carve the bullet out.

With Aramis's coat open and his shirt pulled up, Athos cleaned his hands and set to work, bringing a knife and a spoon to bear on the wound that was spilling blood across Aramis's heaving chest.

Aramis struggled to contain his cries and finally Porthos slid the seam of his glove between his friend's teeth. More than once Porthos watched Aramis's gaze latch onto the flowers in the window, and more than once Porthos found himself wishing his friend would just pass out already.

Athos managed to twist the ball free from between Aramis's ribs with one final grind of metal on bone and Aramis collapsed back limp and panting. His eyes roamed the ceiling, lost. A sheen of sweat glistening across his skin.

"Aramis?" Porthos asked, knowing his friend was still conscious.

Athos doused the wound in brandy and leaned over with folded cloth to stem the bleeding.

Aramis didn't show any sign of answering or that he'd heard him at all. His glassy eyes wandered; his breathing short and labored.

"He'll make himself worse. Calm him down if you can," Athos said, reaching to the foot of the bed to draw blankets across Aramis's shaking limbs.

"Aramis? Come on, stay with us. We're here, there's nothing to worry over." Porthos set a hand near his friend's heart. "We're right here 'Mis. Just calm down."

Aramis didn't respond, the pace of his heart quicker still.

Athos wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, his eyes coming up and stopping at something over Porthos's head. "Porthos," he nodded at the windowsill.

Porthos followed his gaze, "The flowers?"

"It's worth a try," Athos said.

Porthos reached up to pull a flower from the vase. Swallowing the ridiculousness of giving his friend a flower, he raised Aramis's hand and folded his long fingers around the stem. He set his friend's hand across his chest and prayed he hadn't just made things worse.

The marksman's next panicked breath caused his questing gaze to still. He drew another breath, more measured this time, and began to relax. The lines across his face loosened and a moment later his eyelids drifted closed.

Athos tipped his ear to Aramis's mouth and leaned away again with a small smile. "Sleeping," he sighed, "Finally."

Porthos sought his own assurance by the feel of Aramis's heart beneath his hand.

"So flowers then?" Athos asked.

Porthos nodded, "His mum wore daisies in her hair."

"It was likely the smell that reached him. Not one of my favorite smells, daisies. But comfort comes in many forms I suppose."

"Comfort…" Porthos grunted, "Huh, guess so."

TMTMTM

By the time d'Artagnan joined their ranks, Athos and Porthos had a handle on Aramis's moods to the point that they would know when it would make the most difference to leave a flower on his windowsill. Always Aramis accepted the gift without comment. Inevitably, his mood would lift or he would leave off in his pestering and they would know the symbolic embrace had done its work…