Aramis came to with a groan triggering a bout of harsh coughing, culminating in a retch. Some small part of him was aware of a hand rubbing firm circles across shoulders, easing the aching muscles and helping somewhat as he emptied his stomach of everything he'd apparently ever eaten into a bucket which had appeared under his nose.
He flopped back into the cushions behind him with a low moan, fidgeting in discomfort as his entire body burned with fever. He batted weakly at the cup of water that was placed by his mouth, grunting in displeasure when Athos gently but firmly pushed his flailing limb down onto the mattress.
"No Aramis, we need to get some water into you," Athos said steadily, straightening the blanket over Aramis' feet where he had kicked it off. He'd been keeping vigil over two of his brothers for the remainder of the evening and late into the morning. Sweat had poured from Aramis the entire time, dampening his sheets and plastering his wayward curls to his forehead. That coupled with the recent vomiting left Athos in no doubt that getting some liquids into their brother was a top priority. Assuming Aramis' rebelling stomach would allow for it.
"Por...thos?" Aramis asked weakly. Athos grimaced at the rawness of his voice.
"He will be fine," their leader replied, motioning with his head to the bed next to Aramis', currently occupied by the too still form of their brother. d'Artangan sprawled half on the foot of Porthos' bed having fallen asleep in the chair he'd pulled across the room once the physician gave him the ok. "He passed out before we got him back here so there was no trouble with the stitches."
"Sti...stitches?" Aramis said, his brown eyes widening in worry as he pulled himself forward, making to check on his brother. The movement tore another bout of wet coughing from his rattling lungs. He stared mutinously at Athos as the man placed a hand gently on his chest to hold him down. He batted again at Athos' hands petulantly and shifted as if he were poised for another try at throwing himself across the room to Porthos' bedside.
Athos smiled in spite of himself. When Aramis was this sick he became almost childlike. The first time they had dealt with it, it had been an unnerving experience. Aramis had an independent and reckless streak running through him a mile wide. Only their constant companionship had tempered it to a manageable level like the taming of a wild colt. So when he had become so ill they could sit him on his bed and he hadn't moved until they said it was okay to it had been unsettling.
After their many years of friendship they had learned not only to eventually expect this stage when he was sick, but work with it. Of course there was the flip side when the marksman's stubborn nature went to war with his malleableness as was happening now. He flailed a little as he attempted to launch himself forward only to be easily pushed back once again.
"Aramis if you don't sit still I will hit you," Athos dead panned, struggling to hold in a chuckle at the pout which settled on Aramis' face and the dramatic sigh which issued from his mouth. "I assure you, Porthos is going to be alright. The dagger bit deeply but didn't hit anything he needs and so far you're winning the 'who can run the highest fever' race."
"Wake...up?" Aramis croaked. His thoughts felt untethered. Like they were floating in fog and he couldn't quite grasp them. The pounding headache wasn't helping any either. Luckily for him, he was surrounded by friends who knew him thoroughly enough to understand his waffling.
"No he hasn't woken up just yet," Athos said, purposefully keeping the note of worry from his voice. The last thing he wanted was a fever ridden Aramis injuring himself trying to reach their unconscious comrade. He toyed with lying to the stricken man but he knew if their positions had been switched he wouldn't have appreciated it. "The physician said he has lost a lot of blood and his lack of consciousness is his bodies' way of trying to replenish it."
Aramis chest began rapidly rising and falling as his congested breathing sped up at the news. He rolled his head back and forth, limbs twitching as the fever raged through him and he tried to get the panic blooming in his chest under control.
"Aramis calm down. Calm. Down," Athos said, leaning forward and placing his hands on Aramis' sweat slicked cheeks, noting as he did so the still too hot feeling of his skin. "He is going to be alright. You saved his life back at the palace. But he won't thank you for hurting yourself right now so you need to calm. Yourself. Down. Come on now, breathe with me Aramis. Just breathe."
The glassy quality to Aramis eyes had suddenly deepened and Athos realised the fever had taken hold once again. The young Musketeer blinked owlishly as he peered around the room, confusion plastered on his face. But the sound of Athos steady breathing and the hand rubbing on his chest in slow circles encouraged him to breathe as deeply and evenly as his ruined lungs would allow. Slowly, the rapid blinking gave way to heavy lids as the stubborn Musketeer attempted to fight the call of unconsciousness. A battle he seemed to loose all of a sudden as his body went limp, falling into a fitful sleep Athos was still grateful for.
Athos leaned forward, placing a moistened cloth onto Aramis' too warm brow and taking a moment to stroke the side of his face. Worry creasing his eyes. He allowed the stresses of watching over his brothers wash over him for a moment and a crushing weariness seemed to follow hot on its heels. He bowed his head and took a deep breath of his own. Jumping slightly when a voice leapt out of the room.
"Is he always like a puppy when he's sick?" d'Artangan asked, his voice rough with too little sleep but a smile turning the corner of his mouth. In truth he hadn't wanted to intrude on what looked like a intimate moment between his two friends, but it had felt more wrong to sit in silence and watch.
"Fortunately for us, yes," Athos said with a crooked smile at their marksman. "He'll fight like the devil to avoid accepting his fate when he is ill but once it finally takes hold luckily it seems to wipe out his pride and we have a chance to help."
d'Artangan huffed out a small laugh, eyes roving the Spaniard's pinched face with fondness before he leaned back into his chair. Wincing at the kinks in his back from his uncomfortable sleeping position. He stretched his aching muscles and attempted to wipe the exhaustion from his eyes before looking to his other prone brother. Concern creasing his features.
"How is he looking?" Athos said, noting the change in the young man's expression.
"Pale. And far too still. I don't think I have ever heard him lie so quiet in all his life," d'Artangan said with another smirk which didn't quite reach his eyes.
"It is fairly unnerving for him to sleep without renting the air apart with his snoring," Athos conceded with a snort. He stood, mirroring d'Artangan's stretch before crossing the crowded space to sit on the edge of Porthos' bed. Like the boy had said, Porthos' usually dark skin was far too pale and the only indication that he still lived was the steady, even rise and fall of his chest underneath the covers. For which Athos was grateful. The stillness made the giant form of Porthos seem small. It felt wrong.
Athos lay the back of his hand against Porthos' brow and breathed a sign of relief when he felt no trace of fever. Pulling back the thin blanket, he raised Porthos' under shirt before peeling back the bandages, nodding at the thin line of a wound. The stitches were not as neat as Aramis' but the physician had done a good job and the edges of the slit were free of any redness and pus. As he replaced the bandages one of his fingers slipped, grazing the wound slightly.
Porthos' eyes snapped open and he hissed, wincing and instinctively trying to move away from the pain.
"Porthos!" d'Artangan cried, leaping to his feet and leaning over his friend.
"What bloody 'it me?" Porthos said, aiming an uncoordinated hand at the fire which throbbed in his side. Athos caught it easily, stopping him from disturbing the linens and potentially doing more damage.
"My apologies my friend for my clumsiness," he said, a smile breaking out on his face as he locked eyes with Porthos. "Although, if I'd known that was all it would take to wake you I would have prodded it sooner!"
"What the bloody 'ell did you prod?" he asked with another wince, frowning as Athos stilled his hand once again.
"You were stabbed in the palace grounds after you caught up to that loony who wanted to kill the King," d'Artangan said, crossing the small infirmary to where a jug and some cups stood. He filled one with water and walked back to Porthos' bedside, holding the back of the big man's head as he helped him sip some of the soothing liquid.
"Oh yeah," Porthos said, smiling a thanks as he took another sip, his frown deepening as he struggled to recall the night's events. "Aramis saved my bacon. If it weren't for 'im..." Porthos trailed off slowly as a look of dawning crossed his face and he sat up too quickly, tugging at his stitches and eliciting another hiss. "Where the bloody 'ell is 'e? Last I remember 'e'd forgotten how to keep 'is feet."
"Peace Porthos, he is here," Athos said, stepping to the side to allow his friend to see their unconscious marksman.
"What's wrong with 'im?" Porthos asked, worry colouring his voice.
"His illness finally caught up with him is all," d'Artangan said, laying a hand atop Porthos' arm in a soothing gesture.
"Indeed, you and I both knew he wouldn't last the night on patrol," Athos said with an exasperated huff. "He knew it too but you know how he gets."
"'as 'e started talking in Spanish yet?" Porthos asked. Leaning back into his pillows now he knew there was no imminent threat to his friend.
"Not yet," Athos said with a chuckle, looking across to d'Artangan whose face had clouded in confusion at the question. "When he gets ill he tends to forget where he is and that I and Porthos are singularly unable to understand his musings when he rambles in his mother tongue," he explained.
"Apart from the swear words of course...When 'e busts out the Spanish that's usually when the fever is real high," Porthos said quietly. Memories of past episodes running through his head.
"Or when he's managed to drink one too many of a particularly good vintage," Athos said with a half grin.
The others chuckled quietly at his words before looking over to Aramis as one fondly. The man twitched in his sleep and let out a pitiful mewl almost as if he sensed their eyes on him. Athos crossed back to his bed instinctively, replacing the dampened linen on his head and returning to rubbing circles on his still rattling chest. Aramis instantly stilled at the contact, falling bank into an easy sleep though his eyes still roved beneath the lids. Athos had not been a tactile person before Aramis and Porthos had burst into his life. But Porthos was physical without even thinking about it and Aramis, well. Aramis needed touch to ground him. Without the very real contact of his brothers he was likely to act instantly upon his impulses and only their palpable presence held him back.
This need for the physical was never more present than when he was sick or injured. On some very scary occasions it had seemed to be the only thing tethering him to his corporeal body and Athos had quickly gotten over his aversion to physical contact after a short period spent with his brothers. The last time he had had to comfort someone in such a fashion had been with Thomas and after his untimely death Athos' very nature had rejected that side of him. But it seemed Porthos and Aramis had been able to draw it him out without any trouble at all after his years of shunning aught but the most compulsory of human contact.
The addition of d'Artangan had only served to draw him out even further, so it was without any conscious thought at all that he moved to sooth Aramis. Something which Porthos noted with a smile.
"You should get some sleep yourself," Porthos said, his own eyelids beginning to droop as the tension left his shoulders. The wound settled to a dull throb and only really lanced with pain if he chose to breathe too deeply. Or move. Or think about moving. Which he had already decided not to do for the foreseeable future. He noted the dark circles beneath Athos' eyes and the way his shoulders slumped as he tended to their friend.
"In a moment, I just want to make sure Aramis is settled," Athos said thickly through a yawn. In truth he was done in. A fortnight of intermittent evening patrols coupled with the adrenaline of the previous evening and the hours of vigil was finally catching up with him. By this point it was late morning, but with the curtains drawn and a candle burning, his body called for sleep.
"Sleep Athos, I will look after him for now," d'Artangan said, gently but insistently grasping Athos' shoulders and steering him to the chair he had vacated. It wouldn't be a comfortable rest, but they all had more experience than they would care to think about of sleeping sitting by the beds of their stricken comrades. Looking at Athos' face it was apparent that any rest would be welcomed.
Athos resisted for a moment before allowing himself to be lead away after glancing at Porthos. The big man smiled at him and motioned with his head to the chair. Athos sank down onto it with a sigh. He placed his feet at the end of Porthos' bed, crossing them at the ankles and leaning back into the seat. He grasped his hat with the intention of covering his face and threw one last glance at Aramis, shooting a mirrored smile at Porthos as they took in the scene. The Gascon was sitting cross legged on the bed next to Aramis, his leg easily resting on the marksman's side as he continued rubbing his congested chest as Athos had been doing. A low humming was issuing from mouth which neither Athos nor Porthos recognised.
"My mother used to sing this to me when I was sick," d'Artangan said with a sad smile, so low it was almost to himself before continuing to croon the Gascony lullaby.
Porthos aimed a wink at Athos before closing his own eyes and letting the soothing noise wash over him as he sank into his own pillows. Athos' lip twitched as he suppressed a grin before leaning back and placing his hat over his face.
I swear I should visit my family more often! I seem to be the most productive/get my ideas when I am home home to see them (I'm not being completely rude though...this was mostly written over a lazy day during which my mum was on her laptop and my dad was watching the football, which I hate. So I didn't feel guilty putting in my earphones and tapping away).
This is basically just a hurt/comfort story for the sake of it. I realise there is almost no plot at all but I am being a tad self indulgent this time round. I'll have to come up with some sprawling, plot heavy story for whatever I write next to stop getting lazy.
As always, all comments and critiques are gratefully received!