A/N: I'm practically cross-eyed upon posting this so if you find any inaccuracies, I beg of you to let me know.
~Chapter 6~
The doors open a few minutes later to reveal a handful of nurses and a doctor pushing a gurney containing a still strapped-down Aramis.
They both push themselves from the wall and immediately make their way over.
The doctor eyes them inquiringly when they approach, but Athos speaks before he can ask.
"We're his brothers."
The man looks at them curiously, but is apparently too polite to point out their obvious differences of appearance, and nods, motioning for them to follow.
Porthos throws him an amused look, but Athos only shrugs.
He's hardly one to judge.
"P'thos?" Aramis mumbles from where he lies, eyes dimmed and at half-mast, looking pale and completely drained.
Porthos quickly closes the gap between them.
"Right here, mate," he reassures, one hand guiding the stretcher and the other squeezing Aramis' shoulder. "Said you wouldn't get rid of me, didn't I? Athos's here too."
"Mmm…" is the incoherent response. "Athos?"
Athos steps up next to Porthos, a hand on their friend's arm.
"I'm here," he says quietly, and Aramis closes his eyes with a sigh.
They roll him into a room; it's not large, but at least it's a private one.
It would seem being a world-known skier has its perks.
"'S alright," Porthos murmurs softly, hand in Aramis' hair and completely ignoring the nurses who mill about, connecting their brother to various machines. "We're here an' we ain't leavin'."
"Definitely not," Athos agrees, as he moves to stand on Aramis' other side, gripping his uninjured hand tightly.
Aramis blinks up at them, eyes bleary and pained, but grateful.
Someone clears their throat and Athos and Porthos simultaneously turn to look at the doctor.
"Maybe we should take this outside," the man suggests, with a quick glance Aramis' direction. "Give your brother some rest-"
"No," Aramis says, and it's the most determined Athos has heard him since the infirmary. "Whatever you have to say I… I wan' t' hear it."
Sometimes, Athos forgets just how brave his normally jovial friend is.
The fact that said friend currently has a death grip on his hand in a silent plea for them not to leave is a moot point at best.
The doctor nods his acquiescence.
"Alright, then. Well, it appears that you have bruised your ribs but, luckily, no fractures or broken bones were visible on the MRI. Your right wrist is sprained but no ligaments are torn, so it should heal on its own within a few weeks…"
"What of his back?" Athos interrupts.
Despite the fear he knows they all have for the answer, neither of them will really comprehend anything the doctor says before knowing the severity of that particular injury.
The doctor seems to understand this as well.
"Of course. The good news is that we found nothing to indicate that your paraplegia would be the result of a spinal or neck injury-"
"Thank God," Porthos mutters, his hand flexing convulsively in Aramis' hair.
"-there is, however, considerable swelling, most likely from the trauma you suffered in the fall. You are probably experiencing a form of isolated nerve dysfunction, or IND, called femoral nerve dysfunction. It occurs when the femoral nerve is damaged due to trauma in the femur area. That might explain the loss of sensation in your legs."
"It's not-" Athos clears his throat, forces the words out. "You are certain it isn't caused by his head injury?"
The only thing worse than Aramis being paralyzed, is him suffering any kind of brain damage.
Just the thought makes Athos feel sick.
The doctor, though, shakes his head.
"As far as the MRI shows, it's unlikely the confusion and slurred speech is caused by anything other than your typical MTBI. But he'll stay under close observation for the next few hours, just to make sure."
"This femoral -whatever, is it… bad?"
The doctor gives a noncommittal shrug at Porthos' question.
"It all depends on the individual case, really, and if the incident caused any damage to the femoral artery. But no, barring any such complications, the condition in itself isn't life-threatening."
"Will…" Aramis pauses, seems to struggle for a moment with the wording. He'd seemed content to let the others do the talking – Athos isn't sure how much he really comprehends of what is being said – but now he speaks up for the first time.
Eyes, huge and dark and filled with so much carefully controlled hope that something in Athos threatens to crumble, never once leave the doctor as he forces the question out.
"Will I walk again?"
Of course, that's the only question that really matters.
"I'm afraid there are no straight answers to that," the man replies gently, and Athos can feel Aramis deflate. "Like I said, it greatly differs between cases, and depends on the effects of the physiotherapy. However, since you don't appear to have suffered any damage to your spine, and since the MRI suggested no internal bleeding or damage to your femoral artery, I don't see why you wouldn't be able to walk again."
The relief filling the room is so tangible Athos thinks he could suffocate on it.
All things considered, there are probably worse ways to go.
Then it hits him.
"What about his knee?" he asks, and by the straightening of Porthos' neck and the small 'oh' sound coming from Aramis, he wasn't the only one who'd forgotten about that.
"We checked it at the same time as we scanned your back," the doctor says. His mouth twists into a small grimace. "It showed that you most likely tore through the posterior cruciate ligament."
Aramis smirks wistfully.
"Suddenly glad I can't feel 'nything below m'waist."
The doctor looks at him with an encouraging smile.
"It requires surgery to reattach the ligament," he admits. "But it's not a complicated procedure. And since you don't appear to have damaged your back in that fall, I'd say you are a pretty lucky young man."
Aramis nods – as much as he's able – and squeezes Athos' hand.
"So I've been told."
"You will have to stay strapped down for the time being, though. Like I said, there doesn't appear to be any damage to your spine, but we will take another MRI in the morning, just to make certain there are no unpleasant surprises. Someone will drop by to prepare you for surgery in a while, but if you need anything you just call for us."
"Thank you," Athos says, when it becomes clear that Aramis is a bit too overwhelmed to speak – whether by the revived hope of regaining use of his legs again, or by the prospect that he'll have to remain immobile for several more hours, Athos isn't sure. "We appreciate your help, Doctor…?"
"Baeder," the man supplies with a smirk. "Don't hesitate to call if you have any further questions. I'll be here for the remainder of the day."
He looks at them all in turn and after that exits the room.
"My God," Athos breathes out when he's gone, feeling all of ten years older, as Porthos burrows his head in the bed's linen and chokes out, "Shit. Fucking shit."
"Yes. My thoughts exactly," Aramis says, sounding a little dazed.
"Luckiest fucking bastard I know," Porthos laughs brokenly, the sound muffled against Aramis' side.
And for the second time since he put foot in the hospital, Athos remembers something he should have thought of much earlier.
Putting his free hand in his pocket, he digs out the rosary.
"A nurse at the front desk gave me this on my way in," he says. "She assumed you would want it back."
"How thoughtful," Aramis mumbles, bright eyes glued to the item with a reverence Athos will never truly understand.
He untangles his hand from Aramis' and replaces it with the beads, and Aramis breathes out a long sigh of relief and closes his eyes.
"Remin'me t' thank her later," he says softly.
There's a small smile on his lips, and Athos realizes it doesn't matter that he can't understand it, as long as it gives Aramis some sort of comfort.
Maybe that's what makes this time different.
"Athos."
He blinks, and meets Aramis' dark eyes, gaze eerily sharp and far more aware than it was just a moment ago.
"'M not Thomas," he says, and something raw and ugly thrashes against the confines of Athos' heart.
He forces himself not to break eye contact when he leans forward and closes his hand around Aramis', giving it a brief squeeze.
"I know."
He is grateful, and equal parts exasperated by his friends' concern, but this isn't about him.
He clears his throat and abruptly changes the subject.
"How are you feeling?"
Aramis studies him for a beat longer, before he sighs and closes his eyes again.
"As 'right as can be, consid'rin'."
His voice is quiet, probably in deference to the headache Athos can see plainly in the frown adorning his forehead, and he adjusts his own voice thereafter.
"Are you in any pain?"
Aramis gives a tired shrug.
"Head's stuffed," he murmurs. "Littl' sore. M'hand feels 'bout two times its usual size. The rest…" He makes a small, vague gesture toward the lower parts of his body. "'S out of my reach."
"For now," Porthos reminds him, voice a low, steady timbre, and Aramis nods minutely.
Silence descends, all of them trying to digest the last few hours.
He has no idea how much time has passed when the hitch of a breath eventually brings Athos back from his own contemplations. He instinctively glances at the bed, and he aches.
His face is still too pale, and the frown is ever-present, but what bothers him is the tears rolling down from underneath Aramis' closed eyelids.
Porthos wordlessly reaches out and wipes them away, but they're soon replaced by new ones.
"Aramis?" he asks softly, fingers massaging their friend's scalp with a gentleness that should be impossible for a man his size.
Aramis gives a thick laugh.
"Sorry, I'm sorry. I'm alright. Fuck. I'm alright, I'm sorry, I'm really- I just- fucking Christ."
He laughs again, a little more on the hysterics this time, and neither Athos nor Porthos say anything as they envelop their friend, the shock of the day finally catching up to him.
"You're alright," Athos mumbles, arms tightening reflexively as Aramis gasps his next breath out between them.
He swallows, jaw clenching.
"We've got you. We've got you, shh, you're alright…"
A/N: Only one more chapter to go, my friends! Are you still with me?
And MTBI is basically the fancy pancy word for "concussion." It stands for "Mild Traumatic Brain Injury"