A/N: Before we move on with the story, I just need to take a moment to express my gratitude and genuine amazement at all of your support. Never in my wildest dreams did I believe that this story would garner such attention (I mean, as plenty of you have already pointed out, it's just so silly and random an idea that it, by all means, shouldn't work). So my sincerest thanks to all who review, follow, or put this down as a favorite, and thank you also to those who are silently supportive. I'm humbled to have you all share this experience with me.

Okay, I'm done. Let's get back to the drama! ;)

~Chapter 3~

It isn't the first time they've seen Aramis fall.

That's what keeps running through Athos' mind like a mantra when they push themselves through the crowd and towards the infirmary.

They've seen him fall plenty of times and in plenty of different ways: on his back, front, both sides on multiple occasions, right on his butt, one time on his left shoulder with such force they'd feared he'd broken his neck.

Almost always, he rises, brushes himself off, and continues down the slope.

Bruised and sore, yes, maybe a cracked rib or two, but almost always relatively unscathed.

He even gives the crowd a silly little bow, and they all breathe easier after that.

He doesn't rise, this time.

He lies completely still as the emergency personnel make their way to him.

It's all on the big screen for them to see, but their bodies obscure Aramis' and it's impossible to tell if he's awake.

Or alive.

The cold that settles in Athos' bones has nothing to do with the weather.

There is one moment when he thinks he sees Aramis' hand twitch, and when one of the medics moves, there might have been a glimpse of unruly curls, of dark orbs.

Even though he's aware it may just as well be a delusion of his treacherous heart, Athos convinces himself that it isn't.

There are no applauds when the medical staff start sliding down the slope, Aramis secured on a backboard between them and sporting a cervical collar.

Only worried murmurs.

Considering the course is rather long, the three of them should reach the infirmary before Aramis does, but since the site is rather large and they have no real idea of where medical actually is, they end up asking people who give them various vague directions.

By the time they arrive at their intended location, they've managed to storm into both the Austrian and the Norwegian encampments, as well as a waxing shed.

Opening the door – and blatantly ignoring the protests from the man standing in front of it, – they immediately spot their fourth.

He's lying on the backboard, collar still in place, and although the sight is disconcerting – they should have at least loosened the straps tying him to the gurney, by now – brown eyes look over at them from their reclined position, and Athos' heart finally starts beating again.

"I see your flair for the dramatic is still intact," he drawls around the relief as Porthos not so much walks but runs up to Aramis' side.

"Why of course," Aramis replies with a weak smirk, words slurring slightly. "Drama makes everything s'much more interesting."

"I for one could do with a little less," d'Artagnan mutters, though he smiles at seeing their friend awake and talking.

"You and your foolishness will be the death of me, one day," Porthos grumbles. "This is wha' happens when we let you off on your own."

Chiding aside though, his touch is inhumanly gentle as he cards his fingers through Aramis' hair in slow, soothing motions.

"Are you alright?"

The downhiller fixes unfocused eyes on him, face lined in discomfort, the skin around his eyes strained.

"I believe I'll live," he says, lips twitching faintly. But the smile is a frail, tentative thing, and the response is far from as reassuring as it should be.

"Do you remember what happened?"

Their friend gives a weary sigh at Athos' question.

"No, not really. 'S all pretty blurry fr'm after I arrived at the course. But…" He gives a weak twist of his left hand to encompass his body. "-it seems straightforward enough. The result."

Bleary eyes skid over to Athos, locking onto him briefly, before eventually coming to rest on d'Artagnan. Aramis frowns, as if only now realizing that the youth is there.

"What're you doing here?"

D'Artagnan looks mildly taken aback, and a little hurt, by the question. He starts to flounder for a response but Aramis quickly interrupts him.

"I meant, don' you have a second run t'get ready for?"

D'Artagnan blinks at him, before he turns to Athos with a questioning look.

Aramis chuckles softly.

It sounds strained. Hollow in a way that immediately sets Athos on edge.

"Oh I knew you'd go through t' second," Aramis says breezily, in a way that is probably meant to come across as genuine. "How could you not, b'ing part 'v such an amazing 'lite team?"

He winks and d'Artagnan rolls his eyes.

"Treville called on our way here; he came through as 26th," Athos informs him. A short pause, and then he adds, "He did really well."

Aramis smiles and looks back at their youngest.

"I'm looking forward to seeing the re-runs."

Athos studies their injured friend closely, looks past the carefully constructed, carefree mask. Takes note of the cracks in it.

He knows without looking that Porthos sees them, too.

"So, what's the verdict this time, then?" he asks, keeps his voice casual despite his mounting unease.

Aramis' eyes flit over to him – or somewhere slightly off to his right, – expression deceptively neutral.

Athos doesn't buy it one bit.

Their friend shrugs. Or rather, tries to; considering his pegged down position, it proves somewhat difficult.

"Concussion, sprained wrist, banged m'right knee up pretty bad 'pparently…"

Athos frowns, but Aramis continues.

"Maybe some cracked ribs. Hospital… X-rays… or an MRI. Both? Don' remember."

Porthos looks down the length of Aramis' body.

"So, if the only real issue's your knee, how come they 'aven't released you from your bonds yet?"

Aramis averts his eyes.

Chews on his lip.

And says nothing.

Porthos throws Athos a worried look.

"Aramis," Athos says, fighting the dread that is trying to take control over his vocal chords. "What else?"

When there is still no response, Porthos strokes his thumb over the pain lines on Aramis' forehead and their friend closes his eyes with a slightly uneven breath.

"'S alright, 'Mis," Porthos murmurs. "You can tell us."

A few moments of uneasy silence pass before Aramis blinks his eyes open, firmly fixes them on the roof, and Athos' feeling of foreboding increases tenfold for reasons he can't identify.

Their friend takes a steadying breath.

"It's alright," he says, obviously aiming to reassure although his voice is devoid of anything other than a failed attempt at deliberate indifference. "It really- It's not- I'm-"

"Aramis."

He breaks off.

Presses his lips together.

Swallows.

Exhales shakily.

"I can't feel my legs."

A/N: Okay, so before y'all go and get any funny ideas, can I just point out that you need me alive in order to get the rest of the story? Alright? Alright.

(Also: Aren't you happy I made a last minute decision to cut the scene here? No? No one?)