A/N: In which Austrian hospitals have very poor security - but well-meaning staff.
~Chapter 5~
D'Artagnan all but shoos him away as soon as he's finished his second run. Unsurprisingly, he raced with the same boldness and youthful exuberance as he always did, but there had been a new kind of intensity to it, as compared to his first run: almost hurried. As if he had somewhere else to be.
Athos understands the feeling all too well.
But when it's over, he still hesitates. He should stay, for little a while, at least: properly congratulate the kid on another great race, give him some useful advice on how to handle the herd of reporters standing by the edge of the fence-
Then d'Artagnan actually shoves him.
"Go," he says, fond annoyance clearly underlining that one word – and its accompanying eye roll. "I don't need anyone to hold my hand."
And Athos, because he's a bad person, relents.
Looking out over the crowd, he catches Treville's eye and the manager inclines his head in silent assurance.
No matter how capable Athos knows d'Artagnan to be, he should still have someone backing him up during his first big interview.
The reporters might not have the teeth of actual sharks – and they are not all bad; Athos could even be persuaded to go so far as to admit that some of them are really quite tolerable – but the way they use those annoying little recorders can be just as lethal.
He strides past them and gets into one of the team cars.
Considering how far away his mind is, trapped somewhere between the guilt of the past and the uncertainty of the present, it's a minor miracle that he arrives at the hospital in one piece.
A young woman looks up at him from behind the front desk when he enters: eyes a bright blue, dark hair collected in a neat ponytail, and a warm smile on her lips.
"Can I help you?"
"Yes, thank you. I'm looking for someone who was brought in by ambulance from Patscherkofel a few hours ago. René d'Herblay?"
Her smile dims and she narrows her eyes at him suspiciously.
"You're not a reporter, are you?"
Athos somehow finds it in himself to smirk.
"I assure you I'm not," he promises. "Could you confirm that he's here? He didn't come in alone."
She studies him for a moment more before nodding, seemingly satisfied that he's telling the truth. Looking down at her screen, her fingers tap briefly on the keyboard.
"He's here," she confirms. "In ICU. He came in three hours ago."
She looks up, and her expression turns apologetic.
"I can't let you see him, though. Family are the only ones allowed to-"
"He's my brother," Athos interrupts, without any real conscious thought.
He long ago stopped questioning how right it feels, saying it.
She pauses, some emotion crossing her face that Athos can't quite read, before it finally lands in amusement.
Glancing around, she leans over the desk none too discreetly and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"You know, that's exactly what the other one said."
When Athos starts to flounder for an adequate explanation, because of course that's what Porthos would have said, she shakes her head dismissively and winks at him.
"Don't worry. I basically grew up in this place and one soon learns to separate the pretenders from the genuine ones. I can tell you're a good person-"
Athos fights hard not to snort at that.
"-and I can see that you're worried about your, uhm, brother, so I'll let you through. He's in room 202."
She winks at him again.
Athos could kiss her.
He doesn't, obviously.
Because he's not Aramis.
But the hospital is about to receive a very generous donation from an anonymous benefactor.
"Oh, and before I forget…"
She disappears out of sight, shuffling with something under the counter before reappearing, a familiar rosary dangling from her hand.
"One of the paramedics handed it in when they arrived. I don't suppose it belongs to your friend? The clasp is a bit damaged, I'm afraid…"
Athos reaches out and takes it carefully, fingers trailing over the well-worn beads.
"Thank you," he says sincerely, but she only waves him off.
"No need to thank me," she says with a smile. "I hope he's okay."
Athos gives her a tight nod, thanks her again, and then starts walking in the direction of the ICU.
He's almost at the end of the corridor when she calls.
"Just so I know, should I be expecting any more brothers to appear, or are there only three of you?"
Athos' smile is much more genuine, this time.
"There might be another one," he admits, after a moment of contemplation. He doubts d'Artagnan would play the brother-card, but it feels wrong, somehow, not to include him anyway.
Whatever calming effect had radiated off of the nurse dissipates the further away he gets, and it isn't long before those icy claws from the past start squeezing around his throat again.
It's too similar.
Far too similar.
He knows this is not the same, knows that this is, in no way, his fault: that there is no reason for him to blame himself, that Aramis is a grown man capable – well, he uses the term loosely – to make his own decisions, who is responsible for his own mistakes; he is not a naïve child who listens to his big brother's distorted conceptions of reality, who believes and even expects Athos to protect him from every hurt and bruise-
Athos drags a hand down his face and inhales, releasing the breath with forcible calm.
It is not the same, he reminds himself sternly, annoyed, and the whispers from the past quieten…
…Only to come back roaring when he rounds the corner and spots Porthos.
Standing with his back against the wall, arms crossed and head bent low, right foot tapping on the floor, Porthos is all but radiating anxiety.
Athos almost stumbles in his way to reach him.
Porthos looks up as he approaches, the relieved smile morphing into a frown at whatever expression is on Athos' face.
"Where is he?" Athos asks, and when that first question escapes, it's like the release of a floodgate. "What are you doing out here? Is he alright? What did the doctors say? Does he need surgery? Will he-"
Porthos' hands fly up like shields between them.
"Athos, mate, chill! Docs kicked me out half an hour ago. They've taken him to get an MRI."
Athos blinks at him for a moment, tries to remember how to reestablish contact between his brain and his mouth.
"Oh."
He fails.
Spectacularly.
Porthos studies him closely.
"Y'know, I was kinda hopin' you'd be the levelheaded one in this because, honestly man, I'm freakin' out here."
Athos takes a deep breath, forces his heart to slow its rapid beating against his ribcage.
"Right," he eventually manages. "Apologies."
Porthos shakes his head.
"No need for that. I know this can't be easy for you. Bein' here."
Athos carefully doesn't meet his friend's gaze. He knows it will contain nothing but gentleness and compassion, but he really doesn't want to talk about it.
Porthos, thankfully, drops it.
"They didn't seem too concerned about his wrist," he informs, effectively changing the subject and eyes going down the corridor where Athos assumes there's somewhere a door labelled 202. "Probably just a sprain, like he said. It'll heal on its own if he can just avoid usin' it for a few weeks. He's got a badass concussion but, considering the fall, the Docs seemed pretty impressed he escaped without cracking his head open. His knee…"
Porthos' mouth twists unhappily.
"They hardly had to touch it to know it's pretty busted. Tore the ligaments to shit, or that's what they're guessin', anyway. They think he'll recover, but he needs to stay on crutches for a couple of months, and then there's physio…"
"Which he will be absolutely thrilled about," Athos says sarcastically, feeling a little more in control of himself, and Porthos huffs a tired laugh.
"Yeah."
Swallowing, Athos asks the question that's been lying like a suffocating blanket over them since Aramis' confession in the infirmary.
"Spinal injuries?"
Porthos gives a weary sigh and shakes his head.
"They don' know yet."
Right.
MRI.
They won't know anything for sure until after the MRI.
Porthos chews on his lip.
Shifts on his feet.
Athos waits.
"It isn't the first time he's been injured," Porthos eventually says. "Or the first time we've seen 'im fall. Not that I think I'll ever get used to it, but… he always jokes about it, y'know? 'Bout how he'll get more media coverage an' how all the women will dote on 'im even more…"
He trails off, eyes two dark pools of anxiety.
"It's not the first time," he repeats, voice soft. "But, Athos, I've never seen him this scared before."
Athos exhales slowly through his nose.
"Even Aramis isn't fool enough not to fear paralysis," he says, and Porthos tenses at the word that they have both avoided uttering up until now.
Reaching out, Athos squeezes his friend's arm until the larger man looks at him.
He gives a small smirk.
"But it is as you said earlier: he is not alone in this. We will stay with him, and endure months of him constantly complaining of boredom, ensuring us that he's fit enough to handle things that we both know he is not. We will see him through this."
Porthos is still tense, worry in his body and eyes like something tangible, but his smile is genuine, albeit small.
"All for one, 's that it?"
"Always, my friend. Always."
A/N: I felt Athos and Porthos needed to vent their worries. Answers will come in the next chapter, don't you worry. On another note, we're closing in on the finish line, people!
Patscherkofel is a well-known mountain in Austria which hosted several disciplines of the Winter Olympics in -64 and -76, including downhill.