A/N: A massive THANK YOU to everyone who chose to give this story a chance, and then stayed with it to the end. I hope you have enjoyed the ride as much as I have. You guys are amazing.
~Chapter 7~
The next day, the swelling in Aramis' back has reduced enough for the doctors to confirm that he doesn't suffer any damage to his spine.
It's like resurfacing from a nightmare, taking the first full breath in hours, and they all pretend not to notice the tears of relief on Aramis' cheeks when he is finally freed from the board.
He still can't feel his legs though, which they all find worrisome, but Doctor Baeder assures them that the nerves just need time to regenerate and that he will regain sensation in time. They just need to be patient, and then the rest will come easily enough.
Porthos snorts and Athos nearly chokes on his coffee.
Nothing with "Aramis" and "patience" in the same sentence, unless used with a negation, makes for an easy anything.
The surgery went without any complications, though, and the downhiller is released from the hospital three days later, with strict orders of bedrest.
Treville returned to France with the rest of the team as soon as it became clear that Aramis had, once again, managed to beat the odds, knowing that Athos and Porthos won't let the man out of their sight.
Athos has a plan to ensure that.
The manager inquires whether they should leave one of the team physicians but Athos declines, knowing that the idea of having a doctor constantly hovering nearby would only make their ailing brother uncomfortable.
D'Artagnan is clearly torn about his place in all of this, but then Aramis makes the decision for him.
"You should go," he says, firmly waving away the expected objections. "Two jailers are more than enough, and I daresay there's someone at home who will be much more appreciative of your affections."
It's clear that their youngest misses his fiancée and, although he still seems somewhat hesitant, he eventually deflates and joins Treville on the plane back to Paris.
Getting Aramis settled in the car is an awkward and painful experience that they'd all prefer to forget – even with his system buzzing with pain medication, it's clear that every movement causes some amount of discomfort. They have equipped him with his skiing goggles to help dim the glare of the sun, and Porthos bundles him up with so many blankets before they leave the hospital that Aramis is barely visible beneath it all.
"It's only a couple of meters, Porthos," the downhiller had tried to reason.
"An' if anyone can catch pneumonia during that time, it'd be you. Leave'em or you can drive yourself out of this bloody hospital," was the grumbled response, and Aramis had sighed but given in.
Even he knows not to challenge Porthos when he's in mother mode.
By the time they have him all propped up and half-lying in the backseat, Aramis is already half-asleep, exhausted by even that small amount of activity.
When he jerks himself awake for the fifth or sixth time in less than five minutes, wincing in the process, Athos decides that enough is enough.
"Rest, Aramis," he says quietly, though his tone brooks no argument. "We will wake you when we're there."
It looks as though he's about to argue – being Aramis, they expect no less – but then he appears to think better of it and, giving a tired nod, he leans back against the cushioned door with a sigh.
He's asleep in seconds.
Porthos cranes his neck to look at him from the passenger seat, a fond smile curving his lips, and Athos hazards a glance at the big man.
He looks tired, circles under his eyes and lines on his face that Athos can swear to weren't there a few days ago. It's hardly surprising; they have barely left Aramis' side during the time he's spent in the hospital, sleeping in the waiting room or – when kicked out of there by some well-meaning nurse – in the car.
This solution will be good for all of them, he thinks, as the queue in front of them start moving. Give them all some time to regain their feet.
They drive on in silence, not wanting to disturb their sleeping brother – and both too weary to talk, anyway.
[...]
It's close to two hours before the calm is breached by a voice, gravelly with sleep.
"Where are we going?"
Athos gives a small smirk, but doesn't take his eyes off of the road.
"Good morning," he says casually, ignoring the question. "I trust you had a pleasant nap?"
"Yes quite, thank you. This isn't the road to the airport," Aramis says, sleepiness now giving way to suspicion.
Athos hums.
"I'm glad to see that your observational skills are still intact."
He's already discussed his plan with Porthos, and the big man now "casually" puts his elbow against the window and lifts a hand to cover his smile.
Athos doesn't have to check the rearview mirror to see their friend's eye roll.
"You two are truly the epitome of discretion. But alright, I'll play along. If we are not going to the airport, then where?"
"We're taking some vacation time," Athos replies absently, scanning their surroundings.
'Turn left at the tree that looks like a snowman,' Fabian had said. 'You'll pass a gas station, or, more like a giant pile of snow hiding a gas station. Take left when the road splits and then it isn't too far.'
First of all, they're in the Alps: There's snow fucking everywhere.
And second, how the hell does a tree even look like a snowman?
"Marvelous as that sounds, it doesn't answer my question," Aramis says dryly, but Athos can hear that he's intrigued.
He has the excitement level of a child, he thinks fondly.
"No," he replies out loud, voice even. "It doesn't."
Aramis gives a long-suffering, but slightly amused sigh and Porthos' shoulders shake in badly suppressed laughter.
Athos smirks.
They drive on in silence.
Not that it lasts for long.
"Do either of you think that tree looks like a snowman?"
[...]
"Athos… Tell me you didn't."
The engine is off, has been for quite some time, but none of them make a move to get out of the car. Dubious directions aside – they had all agreed that maybe, if one were drunk, or high, that tree could have had the semblance of a snowman, and that's a huge maybe – they had finally arrived.
The location is perfect: a little secluded but not too far from civilization: snow-covered mountains visible in the background and trees spreading out around them, no other lifeform in sight – except for the natural fauna.
And in front of them, a few meters of flat, untouched land, and a two-story wooden cottage.
Yes.
Perfect indeed.
"I'm afraid that is impossible," Athos replies drolly around a self-satisfactory smirk.
"But it… it's a house," Aramis splutters, eyes almost bulging out of their sockets and through his goggles as he gapes at the sight.
Porthos, for his part, is openly grinning.
"I like it."
Athos hums in agreement.
"I think it will suit our needs. Fabien informed me that it's ours for as long as we need it."
Aramis tears his gaze from the wooden construction to stare at them in the rearview mirror, something akin to amazement in his eyes.
"You're serious about this."
It's not a question, but Athos inclines his head nonetheless.
Aramis goes back to staring at the cottage.
"I'm- I… I don't know what to say…"
"'S a first time for everythin'," Porthos teases, and Aramis whacks him on the back of the head good-naturedly.
He soon turns serious though.
"Thank you," he says sincerely, eyes soft and voicing everything that he can't speak.
Silence descends for a while, all of them taking in their surroundings, before Porthos eventually breaks it.
"So, whaddaya say we get a move on, then?"
He doesn't wait for an answer before opening the door and stepping out.
Athos follows his example, and opens the boot to retrieve the wheelchair they borrowed from the hospital. They try to be as gentle as possible when they carry their injured brother from the backseat, but he still tenses at the movement, breath hitching at the sudden onslaught of light outside of the car's toned windows.
When they finally have him settled, Aramis' eyes are closed, his breathing harsh and controllably slow.
Athos and Porthos wait in silence for him to regain his composure.
After a few moments, Aramis blinks his eyes open, the normally so clear browns now dulled with pain and the result of many a sleepless nights.
"I'm alright," he assures, before either of them can pose the question.
Porthos crouches down in front of him and places a hand on Aramis' arm. Squeezing, he says, "You don't have t'be, y'know."
Aramis blinks at him, before giving a sheepish smile and averting his gaze.
"But you will be," Athos says, voice resolute. A promise.
They will make sure of that.
Aramis looks at them both, fond and so very grateful, before his eyes roam over their surroundings anew.
His smile is a frail, tremulous, but genuine thing.
"Yes," he agrees softly. "Yes, I think I will."
A/N: And that's it, people!... or is it? Did you really think I would leave off without an epilogue? Shame on you...