WHAT? An update? Is anyone as shocked as I am? This one comes to you with a heavy dose of Aramis-Angst because he wears it so well. The format is a little different, but hopefully you'll enjoy. You get a lot of Therapist Constance in this one, which I haven't had much of lately, so yay.
This, as with the others in this series, is just for fun and un-beta'd. So, like, don't hold anything that slipped past my mom of three, sleep deprived proof-read against me.
I've been working here and there on an Alphabet based AU series for this fandom too (affectionately called Alphabet Soup), but still have many letters to fill before it'll be done. Sound off in the comments on whether you'd rather I finished them all before posting, or post as I write and inspiration strikes.
Enjoy!
PS, warning for a few naughty words. Oops.
But I'm strong
Strong enough to carry him
He ain't heavy, he's my brother.
The Hollies
"Aramis."
Constance narrowed her eyes, watching her patient continue to stare out the window. Esmé sat patiently at his side where he leaned against the wall, shoulder braced on the window frame. His hands were hidden in the pockets of the gray zip up hoodie he always layered under his leather jacket — always chilled no matter the temperature — but she knew the soft sweatshirt hid split, bruised knuckles, and a bandaged wrist.
She'd known when he skulked in with a rebellious scowl that it wasn't going to be an easy session. That he'd kept his hood pulled up over his head to shadow his eyes suggested he truly intended to make her work for every inch.
"Aramis." She firmed her tone, but he remained unresponsive.
She glanced down at her notes, reminding herself of what brought him here today and then stood. Joining him at the window, she looked out at the busy street below and absently reached to scratch Esmé's nearest ear.
"I've known you for many years now, Aramis," she began gently. "And I know that if you don't want to talk to me, you won't. But I can't clear you back to duty without knowing where your head is."
She glanced at him then, saw in the shadow of his hood that he was watching her out of the corner of his eye — ever vigilant, no matter the company.
"Do you believe I'm on your side?" she asked plainly.
His jaw ticked, tension still thrumming through his posture, but he inclined his head slightly.
"Then do you also believe that I would never pressure you unless I truly thought it would help you?"
Something loosened in his shoulders and Constance resisted a smile, sensing victory.
"I can see that something is eating at you. I know everyone on your team, including you, got hurt on this one. But that's not it, is it? It's something else."
His shoulders sagged further, and he turned his head, granting her actual eye contact.
"Do you trust me to help you?"
He studied her for several long moments, gaze intense. He'd done something similar, though with a bit more of a feral edge, during their first session years ago after the Savoy Op.
Finally, he dipped his chin slightly and this time she let herself smile.
"The only way I can do that is if you talk to me." He slid his gaze away, hiding it in a glance down at Esmé, but Constance ducked down to catch it again. "I only want to help you sort through what's going on in there." She jerked her chin towards his head. "So, you can control it and not the other way around."
More tension seeped out of him, and he let out a deep breath.
"Yeah, okay," he agreed quietly, pulling his hands from the hoodie pockets. With one, he reached to touch Esmé and with the other, he pushed the hood back to pool at the back of his neck.
Constance couldn't help the wince at the dark shades of bruising coloring various parts of his face, but he seemed as unperturbed by his injuries as he always was.
"Come sit?" she motioned back at their customary seats.
He moved without further prompting, sinking gingerly into the comfortable leather chair. Esmé settled between his legs, dropping her head to rest on his thigh. Constance took her own seat with a sigh and folded her hands in her lap in lieu of reaching for her file and notepad. She studied him for a moment, watching him focus on Esmé and gently stroke his fingers through her fur.
She had read the file on this op. She knew that hidden under his clothes was a bandaged machete wound, three bullet grazes, and four cracked ribs. She knew the cuffs of his sweatshirt and the wrap on his left arm hid bruised wrists from restraints. But she also knew that his own injuries and how they occurred weren't what troubled him. Aramis had always taken injury in stride, like it was old-hat.
She started with a softball.
"How are things with Anne?" she asked, feeling her heart warm when something immediately brightened in his eyes.
"Good," he replied, still more subdued than usual.
She waited for him to go on, but he didn't. Water from stone with this one sometimes.
"Last time we spoke, you mentioned you were going to try sleeping at her apartment. Did you?"
His lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but he didn't. He nodded, gaze fixed on the top of Esmé's head.
Constance smiled, pride swelling in her.
"How did that go?"
He lifted a shoulder dismissively, but there was a thread of relief in his voice when he spoke.
"Managed two and a half hours."
Her smile grew.
"Aramis, that's wonderful."
He shrugged again.
"It was only a few hours and Esmé was there."
"Don't do that," she said sternly. "Don't downplay your progress, Aramis. Think of how far you've come."
His gaze flashed up to meet hers briefly and then dropped back down to Esmé.
She wanted to point out that when just after Savoy, he couldn't sleep at all unless Porthos was literally at his back, he had a weapon in hand and a clear line of sight to all entry points in the room. She wanted him to see how far he'd come, but often times he only shut down in the face of such tactics. So, she let it rest and redirected.
"How does Anne feel about all of this?"
Something warm rose in his expression and the corner of his mouth pulled up.
"She takes it in stride," he replied with something like awe in his voice. "She even bought two extra deadbolts for her door."
Constance felt heat prick at her eyes and blinked to dispel it. She knew the wounds of childhood often ran deep, but she always felt a little heartbroken when Aramis was genuinely caught off guard by acts of love and kindness. He responded sometimes as if such gestures were foreign to him, though she knew he heaped them on those around him without reservation. He just never seemed to expect such things in return.
"Have you seen her since you got back?" Constance asked. Constance had met d'Artagnan at the base hospital and stayed the night in his room there. Had Treville not specifically asked her to take a session with Aramis, she would be with her husband even now.
He nodded.
"Athos picked her up, brought her over after dropping me and Porthos at home last night."
Constance nodded, making a note to give Athos an extra tight hug next time she saw him. If Athos had sought Anne out, he must have believed Aramis needed her. The warm look on the sniper's face suggested the assessment had been correct.
Constance took in a slow breath.
"Aramis?"
After a moment of reluctant hesitation, he lifted his gaze to hers.
"You need to tell me what happened."
He stared at her again, that same soul-searching stare that made her feel as if she were being weighed and measured. Then he jerked his head in a sharp nod.
"It went to shit the moment our boots hit the ground."
Six days ago…
"I hate the damned sand and the damned sun," Porthos grumbled winding a scarf around most of his face. With the sunglasses, Aramis could hardly see an inch of exposed skin.
"Big baby," he taunted.
Porthos raised a single finger in his direction.
Chuckling and smirking widely from behind his sunglasses, Aramis adjusted the baseball hat sitting backwards on his head, his own scarf was tucked loosely around his neck.
"I'm not a fan of it either," d'Artagnan muttered, struggling with his own scarf, and mostly just getting his hands tangled in it. Athos, already expertly wrapped up to protect his face, stepped closer to help him.
"Don't mind Aramis, he was born with sunbeams comin' out his ass," Porthos said with a laugh. "When we were kids he used to bask on the roof like a goddamned alligator."
"Really?" d'Artagnan asked, giving Athos a grateful thumbs up once his scarf was tucked securely around his face.
"I like to be warm," Aramis replied with a shrug. It was true, he'd always preferred heat to cold, more so now since Savoy. Give him a sweltering dessert over the arctic any day.
"Likes to ensure a good tan, more like," Porthos teased.
"Don't hate me because I'm beautiful."
"Enough," Athos cut in, without looking up from the satellite GPS in his hand. "The ally base is fifteen klicks east. Mark it on your maps. If we get separated, RV there." He went on while they all dutifully retrieved their maps from their pocket in their tac vest. "The man we need to find should be in the caves six klicks north-east of where we are now."
"You trust the intel?" Aramis asked as he used Porthos back to smooth out his map. He glanced at the GPS Athos held up for him and then marked where the base should be. It wasn't their military, but Treville had made contact to let them know he had operators nearby. He marked where their target should be as well.
"Treville trusts it. I trust Treville."
Aramis nodded. That was good enough for him. He turned to let Porthos use his back to mark his own map. He squinted across the dessert, cocking his head when he saw a small puff of dust rise a distance away.
Porthos went still behind him, marker still pressed against his map.
"'Mis?"
Aramis ignored him, focusing his vision, and trying to figure out what had caused the disturbance. Another cloud of dust rose and then over a distant dune, Aramis saw a small dune buggy.
"I've got a tango, moving fast."
They all exploded into motion. Porthos folded up his map, Aramis wasn't sure he'd finished marking it, as Aramis dropped to one knee, swinging his rifle off his shoulder, and bringing it to bear to peer through the custom scope. While the others quickly took up defensive positions, Athos stepped close to Aramis' shoulder, waiting for him to assess the situation.
It took Aramis a moment to find the buggy in his scope, but once he did, he was able to catch sight of the four men piled onto it and the rifles they all held. There was a machine gun attached to the roll bar as well.
"Four fighting age males, armed. Mounted machine gun of some sort."
"How long do we have?" Athos asked.
Aramis checked his scope, gauging the distance and the speed the buggy was traveling.
"5 mikes."
"Move out."
Present time…
Constance studied Aramis after he fell silent, fingers of his unbandaged hand combing absently at his goatee and his brow furrowed.
"The report says your warning of the threat is what saved you all. Gave you time to get to cover," she commented after a moment.
"Lot of good it did."
"Better than being gunned down in the sand, though," she challenged firmly.
His eyes snapped up to hers, fingers stilling on his beard. He didn't exactly agree, but he didn't argue either.
"What happened next?" she asked.
"We got to the caves where the target was supposed to be. I thought we'd lost them in the dunes."
"But?"
He sighed, pushing his hand up his face and into his hair, sending it into further disarray than it already was.
"I was wrong."
Six days ago…
Aramis peered out of the cave, scanning the sand around them with his eyes first, then with Athos's binoculars then again with his eyes. He didn't see anything, any sign that the buggy had pursued them this far.
"Anything?" Porthos asked, shoving a canteen hard against his chest to make sure he took it and pulling the binoculars away from him. "Drink," he added, in case Aramis hadn't gotten that message already.
"I don't see anything. We must have lost them. We would have been harder to track than they were."
Porthos nodded, but then arched a brow at him sternly.
Aramis dutifully brought the canteen to his lips and took a long drink.
"Athos is ready to move, just waiting on your word."
Aramis nodded, capping off the canteen and scanning the dessert one last time.
"All clear. Let's go."
Present Day…
"So, you weren't wrong."
Aramis's gaze slid up to hers, eyebrow cocking in challenge.
"No one had followed you that you could see."
He blinked slowly, as if her words did not compute.
"Based on the information you had at the time. Is there any reason to believe you made the wrong call?"
His eyes narrowed and she could nearly see the wheels turning in his head as he ran through the scenario over and over in his mind.
"Most importantly, Aramis. If faced with the same scenario, and the same information again, would you make the same call?"
He pressed his lips together, gaze chilling. He never had liked her chipping away at his self-flagellation.
"Next, you found the target? Correct?" Constance pushed on.
He grunted agreement.
"And then?" she prompted.
"Well, then it really went to shit."
Six days ago…
Aramis scanned the dessert around them as Porthos secured flexi-cuffs on their target and Athos called it in to Treville.
D'Artagnan stepped up beside Aramis, scanning the sand as well.
"It's what? 10 klicks to the base from here?" the younger man said.
"Closer to 12. We backtracked a bit running him down in the tunnels." Aramis jerked his head towards the man Porthos was pulling towards them.
"Gonna be a hot walk," Porthos grumbled.
"Just imagine it's the beach," Aramis suggested, grinning cheekily.
"I hate the beach."
Aramis laughed. He, of course, knew that was a lie. But Porthos deadpan delivery was spot on.
"Time to move," Athos said from a few feet away. "We should make it before dark."
Aramis shifted his gaze back to the dessert in time to see a glint in the sand and a muzzle flash. He was already swinging his gun to bear as he shouted out.
"CONTACT FRONT!"
The warning came a moment before a bullet slammed into Porthos' chest armor. The big man staggard back a step and then fell, unconscious before he hit the ground.
"Porthos!" Aramis called, even as he returned fire.
"D'Artagnan, grab him!" Athos snapped, stepping up next to Aramis to fire back at the attacker as well.
Aramis caught movement out of the corner of his eye, saw their target scrambling away into the tunnels. He saw d'Artagnan run after him.
"Go!" Athos ordered, nudging Aramis sharply in the shoulder.
Aramis spared a worried glance at Porthos' prone form before sprinting after d'Artagnan. He could hear the foot falls of d'Artagnan's pursuit of their target, but it was too dark to see anything yet.
"Stop!" he heard d'Artagnan shout and then there was a sudden grunt and the sound of a scuffle. Aramis slowed, bringing his gun up and waiting for his eyes to finish adjusting to the darkness. The thud of a body dropping sent him a step to the left to press against the wall.
He eased around a bend to see three shadowed forms standing over an unmoving body. One of them raised a gun, aiming at the form on the ground.
Aramis didn't hesitate.
He killed the one with the gun with a precise headshot. The other two returned fire immediately and Aramis was forced to duck away, rolling across the narrow tunnel to make himself a more difficult target. He felt the burn of a bullet grazing his thigh and another his bicep, but it was hardly enough to slow him down. He brought his gun up again, dropping another of the men with a single shot.
The third ran.
Aramis fired after him, but the man dodged down a hidden pathway and disappeared into darkness. Aramis went to d'Artagnan's side, rolling him quickly onto his back and checking his pulse. He found it beating strong and steady, despite the wet mess at the back of his head.
"Good boy," he whispered, patting the younger man on the chest.
The echo of gunfire behind him sent him spinning on his heel, rising with his rifle up as he stood protectively over d'Artagnan.
His radio crackled in his ear, but the tunnel interfered with the transmission, and it was nothing but garbled static.
"Whiskey, come in. Do you copy?" he hissed into the mic, eyes scanning the darkness back the way he'd come. There was no reply.
A tingle of warning ran down Aramis' spine and he spun, narrowing getting his rifle up in time to deflect the board being swung at his head. It smashed against his fingers instead, sending his gun tumbling from his numb grip. He darted back, avoiding a second swing entirely and then dove forward, rolling under the third so that he came up nearer to d'Artagnan again. The third man had come back it seemed.
"You could wake up any time now, kid," Aramis called down to the unconscious boy as he dodged another swing. He heard shouting and the sound of another scuffle back the way they'd come but couldn't spare the focus to figure out what it might mean.
He licked his lips, watching the board wielding attacker, anticipating his next move. He stepped into it, bringing one arm up to protect his head, letting the board smash jarringly against it, but drew his combat knife from his vest at the same time, dodging in close enough to drive it up into his attacker's ribs.
Ripping it free, Aramis swung to face the sounds of the other fight in time to see Athos tumble backwards, hitting the ground in the jarring kind of way that suggested he'd been thrown. A metal ball bounced down next to him.
"GRENADE!"
Aramis dove forward, grabbing Athos' collar roughly and throwing them both bodily back towards d'Artagnan. The blast threw them the last few feet and sent chunks of rock raining down.
Aramis groaned as he pushed himself up, looking back at the tunnel to see nothing but a pile of rock and stone.
He swung back to Athos, noting the blood coating his thigh and the side of his face.
"Where's Porthos?" he demanded.
Athos shook his head, gripping his thigh.
"They overran us! They forced me away from him."
For a moment, Aramis saw red. He snatched at Athos' vest, dragging him up and slamming him back against the tunnel wall.
"You left him?!"
"They dragged me back!"
Aramis drew him forward and slammed him back again and Athos let him. In his fury, he might have started throwing punches if not for d'Artagnan's sudden groan.
Aramis snapped his head around, watching the boy weakly stir. He blinked and the haze of fury receded. He let go of Athos abruptly, stepping back as if his touch burned. He watched as the older man sagged back against the wall, clearly spent.
"Wha?" d'Artagnan flailed, a hand going to the bloody mess on the back of his head.
"Take it easy," Aramis coached, kneeling next to him and pressing a palm to his chest. d'Artagnan collapsed back weakly and Aramis stayed there for a moment. He closed his eyes, fighting down the panic of knowing the tunnel had just collapsed behind them and Porthos was somewhere on the other side, alone. It clawed at his throat, tightening it, and contracting like a band around his chest.
"I'm sorry, Aramis," Athos gasped out, gripping his thigh. "I'm so sorry."
Aramis opened his eyes and saw again the blood on his brother's leg. It struck him like a blow.
"You were hit."
He sprang to his feet, guiding Athos down to sit and ripping into his cargo pocket for a pressure bandage. He dressed the wound without looking up and when he was done, fingers twisted in the fabric of his uniform. He forced himself to meet Athos' devastated gaze.
"I'm sorry."
Aramis shook his head, pushed off Athos' hand and stood. He drew in a slow breath, analyzing their situation. Athos was bleeding, the bandage would help, but he needed medical attention as quickly as possible. d'Artagnan was clearly severely concussed. He too, needed help.
But Porthos needed him too.
Aramis closed his eyes, willing the right path to reveal itself.
He found it in Porthos's own words, spoken to him years ago when they'd spoken for the last time before being put in separate foster homes.
"We'll always find each other, you and I."
He turned to look at the wall of rock between him and his brother.
"I'll find you, brother," he whispered.
Then he turned back to his injured friends.
"We need to move. Can you walk?" he demanded of Athos as he crouched next to d'Artagnan.
"I'll walk," Athos declared, already struggling to his feet.
Aramis nodded at him, but still couldn't quite make himself meet his brother's eyes.
"Okay, kid, this isn't gonna be fun for either of us. Please don't puke on me."
With that, Aramis hefted d'Artagnan on to his shoulders and stood. The boy was limp, already unconscious again. Aramis jerked his head at Athos, who hobbled closer and then braced a hand on Aramis' nearest arm.
He'd get them to safety and to medical attention.
Then he'd come back and kill everyone between him and Porthos.
Present Day…
Constance watched Aramis stare out the window. He'd stood at some point in his retelling and stalked to the window, arms crossed moodily over his chest though she knew it had to make his ribs ache. Esmé sat loyally at his side, body pressed against his leg.
"It was an impossible choice, Aramis," she pointed out after he remained silent for a few minutes. "You made the best one you could."
"I left him out there."
"You had two gravely wounded men to get to safety."
"I left him."
Constance pressed her lips together, watching the tension slowly tighten across Aramis's shoulders.
"Athos had been shot," she reminded, as gently as she could. "D'Artagnan had a severe concussion. What would have happened to them if you had made a different choice?"
He whirled to face her with fury written across his face as he gestured a bit wildly.
"I know I made the right call. That doesn't change anything!"
"Aramis, it should change everything," she countered his anger with calm.
"I left my brother in enemy hands!"
"You didn't have a choice."
"That doesn't matter!"
"It does."
He shouted wordlessly and spun back to face the window, arms crossed again. Esmé whined at his side but was ignored.
"What happened next?" she prompted.
"I got them to the base."
She knew from the report that Aramis had carried d'Artagnan in on his shoulders the entire 12 kilometers between the caves and the base, while also supporting Athos' flagging, limping gate. She wasn't surprised that he took no credit for that feat. Aramis could never see the heroism of his own actions.
"And were detained?"
Aramis muttered something in Spanish under his breath.
"Aramis?" she prompted.
"Yes, we were detained."
Six days ago…
Aramis paced the tent they'd been sequestered to.
d'Artagnan was sleeping peacefully on a cot, an IV snaking from a wheeled pole next to him. His head had been bandaged and an X-ray done. No fractures, but he was clearly out of it every time he surfaced.
Athos was propped against pillows on a second cot, his own IV helping to replenish his lost fluids. His keen gaze followed Aramis's agitated circuit around the room.
Aramis paused in front of the tent flap, glaring at it as he instinctively checked for his weapons, which had been confiscated upon their entry to the base.
"This is taking too long," he snarled at no one in particular.
"I know," Athos agreed.
"It shouldn't be taking this long."
"I know."
His hands twitched, aching to draw weapons that weren't there.
"They took my favorite knife," he announced as he paced away from the entrance again.
"I know."
"And my Desert Eagles."
"They'll give them back," Athos insisted confidently.
"They shouldn't have taken them at all!" Aramis snapped. "We're on the same goddamned side!"
"There's obviously been some sort of miscommunication. And perhaps they don't deal with ally forces very often."
"They'll bloody well remember dealing with me," Aramis growled, eyes hard and unforgiving. "And if someone doesn't come in here and clear a rescue operation soon, I'm just going to go do it myself."
"Alone?" Athos challenged doubtfully.
Aramis turned his glare on him, something truly lethal flashing through his gaze.
"If I have to."
He'd rescue Porthos or die trying.
"Treville will clear it up," Athos promised. "You won't have to go alone."
Aramis went on the prowl again without responding. He didn't share Athos's confidence in people. He was still pacing when the tent flap moved aside, and a man stepped into the small space.
Aramis opened his mouth, ready to let loose a scathing flurry of words crafted to cut to the bone, but Athos spoke quickly before he could.
"Did you reach our CO?"
The newcomer shifted a wary glance at Aramis but held his ground at the tent opening.
"Unfortunately, we were unable to reach this…" he glanced at a clipboard in his hand, "Treville. And as you were caught operating in an active combat zone, I'm going to have to detain you both until your orders can be verified."
Athos tried to cut Aramis off a second time but was too slow.
"Detain us?" the sniper hissed, stalking slowly towards the man. "We still have a man out there in your 'active combat zone' who is injured and on his own."
"You're not cleared to operate in this area. I can't let you go back out there," the man shot back.
"How the hell do you think we got there in the first place?" Aramis snapped. "Obviously, we're cleared to operate here!"
"Until I've got proof…"
"Do you travel into combat zones with your orders in hand?" Aramis challenged.
"Proof you are you who say you are," the man clarified with a scowl.
"The dog tags aren't enough?" Athos put in; voice sharp.
"I've seen them faked."
"Why else would we be here?" Aramis demanded.
"That's what I intend to find out."
"We've still got a man out there!" Aramis reminded again.
"Then perhaps you shouldn't have left him behind."
"Aramis, no!"
Athos's caution came too late, and Aramis wouldn't have listened anyway.
He closed the distance between him and the other man and put him on the ground with a hard left cross. MPs flooded into the tent and Aramis was forced to the ground and handcuffed.
"I'll see you court marshalled for that," the man growled as he hauled himself up off the dirt. "Detain all of them in here. They're not to leave the tent. Post a guard and cuff that one to the cot." He pointed a finger at Aramis.
In a matter of moments, they were alone again. Aramis sat in the dirt next to Athos' cot, both wrists cuffed to the frame.
He felt Athos' gaze on his profile for a few moments before the older man sighed.
"So, you're going to…"
"Of course, I am," Aramis replied easily, twisting to use his teeth to retrieve a paperclip from the folds of his uniform sleeve. A few moments later, the handcuffs popped free.
"The guard?" Athos wondered, but the curve of his lips suggested he wasn't worried.
"Knocking him out would draw too much attention unfortunately."
"Unfortunately," Athos agreed wryly.
"Stealth it is."
"You'll need a weapon."
Aramis gave him a patronizing glance.
"Athos, please. I'll liberate someone's rifle on my way out of the compound."
Athos caught Aramis' arm as he moved past him towards the back of the tent.
"Watch your six. Bring yourself back in one piece too, not just Porthos."
Aramis gave him a tight nod and took his leave.
Present Day…
"Was it easy to get off the base?" Constance wondered.
"They were more focused on keeping people out."
"How did you find your way back to the caves? They took your gear and your map."
Aramis tapped the side of his temple.
"You remembered the map," Constance realized. She knew Aramis's IQ was high, but sometimes the things he did — things all of them did — caught her by surprise.
Aramis shrugged away her awe and went back to looking out the window.
"So, you went straight back to the caves?"
"It was the only option I had. I don't know what I would have done if they had moved him."
Or killed him, she heard though he hadn't said it out loud. She imagined that if they had moved Porthos, Aramis would have found a way to track them through the sand.
"What then?"
"Then? Then I killed them."
Six days ago…
Night had fallen as Aramis came within sight of the caves again. He laid out on a dune and squinted through the darkness. He spotted the fire almost immediately, smoke billowing up into the clear night sky.
He shifted, lifting the small scope he'd liberated off one of the soldiers on the base as he left. Holding it to his eye, he scanned the cave entrance.
He spotted Porthos, bound, leaning against a rock. He was hunched in a way that suggested he was injured, but he still glared at his captors across the fire. Heady relief swept through him, leaving him dizzy. He dropped his forehead down to rest on his arms, feeling heat burn behind his eyes.
"Gracias a Dios." (Thank God)
In the wake of the relief at finding Porthos alive, exhaustion swept through him. Aramis allowed himself a single moment to acknowledge that it had been a long ass day and that it wasn't over yet. Then he steeled himself and looked up again, bringing the scope up to study his targets.
There were six of them. Two dune buggies parked nearby.
Bad odds.
He'd faced worse.
Present Day…
"Did you hesitate?"
Aramis turned to look at her, confusion painted across his face.
"When you saw there were six of them, heavily armed, did you have doubts?" Constance clarified.
He just blinked at her, as if the question were spoken in a foreign language.
Somehow, Constance wasn't surprised. Self-preservation was not Aramis's strong suite.
He tilted his head, gaze intense as he looked at her.
"My brother needed me," he said, slowly as if she wouldn't understand otherwise. "It could have been a hundred men and I wouldn't have done anything differently."
She believed him.
Six days ago…
The first two were easy. Though his sniper rifle would have been easier, the rifle he'd stolen as he escaped the base did well enough. Two shots, two kills. He managed to wing a third as he ducked away behind one of the dune buggies when the remaining enemies returned fire.
He trusted Porthos to have the sense to make himself small and seek cover but couldn't spare the focus to check on him as the enemies rushed towards the dune buggy.
Aramis swung out from behind his cover, rifle raised, dropping another one.
He hardly felt the sting of a bullet grazing his unprotected side.
He fired again, cursing when the gun jammed. He threw it at the nearest enemy to unbalance him and then dove after it, putting his shoulder into the man's solar plexus and taking them both to the ground. He snatched the man's own knife from his belt and sliced it neatly across his throat.
Hot pain burned across his side as the final enemy caught him with a machete. Aramis felt the heat of blood welling and soaking his side immediately but ignored it in favor of diving at the machete wielder. They grappled for the blade and finally Aramis managed to knock it loose from the man's grip, sending it skittering into the sand.
A force like a freight train slammed into his back, sending him crashing into the framing of one of the dune buggies. Something in his chest exploded in pain, but before he could even process it, hand pulled him back, throwing him to the ground. The two men — the machete wielder and the man he'd winged — loomed over him.
Aramis crab crawled backwards, searching blindly with his hands for anything to use as a weapon.
His hand found the blade of the machete as the men advanced, the one he'd winged diving towards him with a swinging fist.
He caught Aramis hard on the cheek and he turned with the blow, covering his scrambling attempt to find the machete's handle. A boot slammed into his back as his fingers closed around the grip. Aramis swung his whole body around, slicing blindly. He watched his attacker fall back with a scream; half his arm was gone. Aramis swung again and the man fell silent.
Aramis struggled to his feet, searching wildly for the final man.
"Behind you!" A familiar voice bellowed, and Aramis spun, stumbling back at the sight of a rifle butt swing towards his head like a baseball bat. It didn't catch him cleanly, barely skimmed his jaw, but the blow still sent him staggering.
He wasn't quite prepared when a body tackled him to the ground. The machete went flying once again. He struggled against the weight on top of him, taking as many blows as he delivered. Finally, he maneuvered the man into a head lock, wrapping his legs around his torso to hold his flailing body down. He closed his eyes against slapping hands and scratching fingers and shifted his grip.
A sharp twist and it was over.
Aramis kicked the body away and pushed himself back, eyes rabbiting around to make sure no one else was moving. It was quiet save for the crackling of the fire and the soft groans coming from just inside the cave.
It was the groans that spurred him to movement.
Staggering to his feet, Aramis turned his back on the bodies of his enemy and looked for his brother.
Porthos was propped awkwardly against the edge of the cave, eyes fever bright and blood covering every visible piece of his skin.
Aramis ran the few steps that separated them, sliding to his knees to catch Porthos as he started to list forward.
"Talk to me!" he snapped, hands roaming as he looked for the source of all the blood.
"Bloody bastards like their knives," Porthos told him with a groan.
Aramis could barely see the cuts hidden under all the blood. Bruises had swollen Porthos' face, hiding one of his eyes completely. Aramis unabashedly pushed two fingers against his brother's jugular and checked his pulse even as he craned around him to see what bound his hands.
Simple rope. Small mercies.
"Such a badass…" Porthos muttered as Aramis slid behind him to work on the knots.
"What?" Aramis asked, distracted.
He tossed the ropes aside once he'd loosened them.
"You," Porthos explained, gazing out at the small, bloody battlefield. "6 on 1. Badass."
"That's me," Aramis replied without conviction as he pulled Porthos arm over his shoulder and forced him to stand. "The baddest of all asses."
He pulled his brother towards the nearest dune buggy.
Present Day…
"It was an easy thing to find a key on one of the bodies. Of all the trips I made across the dessert that day, that one was the quickest at least."
"But not the easiest?" Constance guessed.
Aramis was pacing now, short circuits around the room with no real pattern. Just agitated movement.
"Porthos lost consciousness part of the way back. His breathing got labored."
"So, when you finally got back to the base…"
"It was nearly dawn at that point. My departure had been discovered, of course. So, they were on the lookout. I was somehow still surprised by the guns."
"They tried to detain you again?"
"Tried…didn't follow through at first."
"Because of Porthos," she said, knowing it was the truth.
"He needed help."
"You were worried."
He looked back at her with haunted eyes.
"I was pissed...and terrified. Not a great combination with me."
Five days ago…
Aramis slid the dune buggy to a stop a bit away from the gate. He climbed out and sprinted around to pull Porthos out as well. His brother was unresponsive as he manhandled him onto his shoulders.
"Stay with me, brother," Aramis whispered as he staggered towards the gate.
"Identify yourself!" a faceless voice shouted.
"Aramis! French Commando, Musketeers!" He shouted back, never stopping his progress forward.
"Stop right there! Don't move!"
Aramis stumbled to a stunned stop at the sound of rounds getting chambered into various guns.
He looked up, surprised to see several men leveling weapons at him.
"This man needs medical attention," Aramis snapped.
"You're to be placed under arrest!" one of the men shouted.
"I'm not going anywhere until he's been seen to by a medic."
Aramis started forward again, glaring at the men aiming at him.
"You gonna shoot me?" he challenged when none of them made a move to lower their weapons. "Then do it or get the fuck out of my way."
One of the men nudged another and they parted. Aramis stalked past them as steadily as he could manage in his own exhaustion, feeling only meager relief when the gate closed behind them.
A medic ran forward, two men carrying a litter jogging behind him.
"Put him here!" the medic snapped.
Aramis lowered Porthos down as gently as he could, sinking to his knees next to the litter as the medic exploded in a flurry of activity.
"Lost consciousness ten minutes ago," he reported. "Blood loss, blunt force trauma. I don't know what else."
"I've got him now," the medic promised, sparing a moment to meet Aramis's worried gaze. "I've got him," he said again.
Aramis nodded and watched the men lift the litter, moving quickly away towards the medical tent.
Aramis stiffened at the pressure of a gun barrel between his shoulder blades.
"On your stomach. Interlace your fingers behind your head."
"You can't be serious," Aramis growled.
"Do it now!"
"Fuck you!"
A boot slammed into his back, putting him face first in the dirt. Hands yanked his arms back, flexicuffs tightening on his wrists a moment later.
"Escort the prisoner to the brig." Aramis couldn't see him, but he recognized the voice of the man he'd decked earlier.
"He's injured, sir."
"Send the medic once he's done with the other one."
"Yes, sir."
Aramis didn't have it in him not to struggle as they hauled him up. He felt the flexicuffs digging into his wrists but kept pulling at the bindings.
"Knock it off. You're just hurting yourself," a low voice whispered at his side as he was pulled in the opposite direction of the medical tent.
Present Day…
Constance watched Aramis rub at his wrists as he looked out the window again.
"How long were you in the brig before someone came to treat your injuries?"
"I'm not sure. An hour? Less?"
Too long, in her opinion given that he'd been actively bleeding.
"And no one told you what was going on outside the brig? That Treville was on his way?"
"No."
"Did you ever worry about your situation?"
He snorted inelegantly.
"No."
She quirked an eyebrow, intrigued. When she didn't say anything, he glanced over at her and saw the expression.
"I knew when Treville heard what had happened, he'd raise holy hell. I only had to wait."
Five days ago…
"Open this goddamned cell before I have every one of you court marshalled!"
Aramis pulled his head forward from where he'd rested it back against the wall and watched wearily as Treville came storming into the brig. The soldier on duty fumbled with the keys until Treville simply snatched them away. He found the appropriate one and unlocked Aramis's cell and then threw the keys back at the soldier.
For all his whirlwind rancor upon entry, Treville's approach was steady and measured.
"You with me, Diablo?" Treville asked, hovering a few paces away.
"Is Porthos okay?"
The simple question seemed to settle any concern for his state of mind because Treville was at his side in two strides. Treville's hand settled carefully against his jaw, pulling Aramis's gaze around to meet his. Whatever Treville saw in his eyes seemed to ignite some mixture of fury and worry in his commander's expression.
"Porthos?" Aramis asked again.
"He's awake and aware. Ready to burn this base to the ground to find you."
Treville gently pulled Aramis away from the wall, producing a knife to cut away the flexicuffs. Aramis hissed as full circulation returned to his fingers. Treville helped him pull his arms around, fury lining every piece of his face.
Treville's hands skimmed over him then, feeling the bulk of bandages in various places. The bruising on his face drew his commander's gaze and something in Treville's jaw ticked.
"Did they do any of this to you?"
"Beyond the cuffs? No. That would be the dead assholes I left in the dessert."
Treville nodded.
"On your feet, soldier. Your brothers are waiting."
With Treville's help, Aramis made his way to his feet, biting back a groan.
"What do you need?" Treville asked as he supported Aramis out of the cell.
"Just take me to Porthos."
Treville nodded and together they made their way out of the brig. The journey across the compound was slow. Aramis was stiff and exhausted. He couldn't remember the last time he ate anything or slept. He'd been unwilling to let his guard down over the hours he'd spent in the brig.
Finally, the tent he'd escaped from came into view.
He wasn't sure what he expected when he stepped through the flap. But Porthos immediately pushing himself up to sit on his cot, alive and alert, was a welcome sight.
Aramis spared a glance to check Athos, who gave him a rare smile and looked tired and relieved all at once. Next, he looked at d'Artagnan, who was propped against pillows, but alert and coherent. The boy's eyes were welled up with unshed tears and he gave Aramis a shaky nod of greeting.
Finally, Aramis let himself focus on Porthos.
His brother's face was still bruised and swollen. There were stitches and bandages in too many places. But he was smiling, wide and relieved.
"Aramis."
Aramis moved away from Treville and nearly tripped on his way across the small space to Porthos' side.
"I'm sorry," Aramis said, the words feeling thick on his tongue.
Porthos's response was to hook a hand in Aramis' dirty, blood stained t-shirt and pull him forward. Aramis was unsteady enough on his feet to fall into it. The next thing he knew, Porthos was grunting in pain, but also had him wrapped in a tight hug.
"Lo siento," (I'm sorry,) Aramis whispered again as gray crept in the edges of his vision.
He heard the rumble of Porthos's voice but couldn't grasp the words.
"Lo siento," he managed to slur out one more time before the world faded to darkness.
Present Day…
Constance startled at the sound of paper crumpling and looked down. She found the pages of notes she'd started part way through the session crumbled in her fists.
"I woke up a few hours later, on a cot next to Porthos, between him and the back wall of the tent."
A familiar position, Constance knew. Porthos had been Aramis's bulwark against the world since they were children.
"Did he try to talk to you then?"
"He tried."
"You weren't ready to listen, though," she surmised.
Aramis's jaw twitched as he clenched it.
"Are you ready to listen now?"
He said nothing.
"Your brothers are worried, Aramis. In the past, when you shut down like this, it becomes extremely hard for them to reach you in any capacity. And as much as the past haunts you, it haunts them as well."
After Savoy, Aramis had been utterly lost. Athos and Porthos both had been at the end of their ropes trying to help him and running themselves ragged in the process. She knew they both lived in a state of wary watchfulness for signs of the same detached, isolated behavior that had been a warning sign of the worst fallout from Savoy.
He continued to stare silently out the window, not reacting to Esmé's nose nudging his hip.
"What happened to Porthos wasn't your fault."
He flinched like she'd slapped him, a more uncharacteristic reaction than she'd seen from him in a long time.
"If you would listen to them, they would all tell you that you saved their lives on this op."
"I put their lives in danger."
"You don't even know that the men you saw when you first dropped in where the same ones who ambushed you later."
Aramis went still at that, head cocking slightly as if considering that point for the first time.
"Is it not equally as likely that those men simply radioed to their comrades about your presence there? And if that were the case, there is absolutely nothing you could have done to change what happened."
"There's no way to know."
"Exactly," she stated, voice sharper than normal. "There is no way for anyone to know what happened, whether the men you saw were the same ones who ambushed you or not. You cannot know. So why would you blame yourself for something that you can't even prove was your fault?"
He opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it again.
"That doesn't even matter," he said after a moment. "I still left him behind."
"You had no choice."
"There's always a choice."
Constance narrowed her gaze and changed tactics.
"If you were in Porthos's place and he in yours, what would you want him to do? Risk Athos and d'Artagnan to try and save you? Or ensure their safety first, before yours."
He had to brace himself against the window frame as the reality of that scenario settled over him.
"You would always choose your brothers over yourself, Aramis. I know that about you more than I know anything else. Do you think it's so unreasonable to think perhaps Porthos feels the same? How do you think he would have felt if he knew you sacrificed his brothers to save him?"
Aramis didn't answer, but he didn't have to. She could see the realization in every line of his face.
"Go home, Aramis. Talk to them and let yourself off the hook for this one."
The look he gave her then suggested "letting himself off the hook" was not something he knew how to do. She shooed him out anyway, having full confidence his brothers would teach him that lesson themselves.
Anne looked up from her phone, silencing the tone of the sixth message from the boys asking if Aramis was done yet. How Aramis was doing. If he was better after seeing Constance. She knew they were worried. But she also knew that smothering Aramis in that worry would only push him further away. It was why she'd confiscated his phone when he climbed into the car this morning to come here.
He stepped out of Constance's office with a furrowed brow, expression twisted in conflict as he made his way into the waiting room through habit more than intention.
She stood, studying him closely as she slid her phone into her purse.
He noticed her when he was still several feet away, something igniting warmly his otherwise stormy eyes.
"Hey, you," she greeted softly.
His strides took on more purpose then. She opened her mouth to say something else, but he stepped into her space and wrapped his arms around her without a word, burying his nose in her neck. Instinctively, she brought her arms up around him, curling her fingers into the short hair at the back of his neck.
He hadn't let her touch him since he'd gotten back.
Athos had showed up at her door without calling, face pale, eyes tired and a crutch under one arm.
"He needs you." Was all he said.
Last night…
Anne didn't even pack a bag. She just pushed her feet into the nearest shoes, grabbed her keys off the entry table, snagged her purse, and followed him. She took Athos's keys without asking, sending him to the passenger seat with a look. How he'd managed to drive here was anyone's guess.
When they got to the apartment, it was quiet.
"He was in his room when I left," Athos told her.
Anne nodded, heading down the hall without hesitation. She could see Aramis's door was closed, no light spilling under it. Porthos hobbled out of his own room, skin grayer than normal and limbs shaking with the exertion.
"Anne…" he greeted, voice as warm as ever.
She stepped to him and wrapped him in a hug.
"Are you okay?" she asked against his chest.
His hand patted against her back soothingly.
"On my way that direction." He hesitated and then hugged her a little tighter. "Tell him it's not his fault."
Something clenched in her chest, and she nodded, pulling away. Armed with that alarming bit of information, she slid into Aramis's dark room and closed the door on the faces of two worried men.
The curtains were drawn tightly over the windows, despite the darkness outside. Still, meager light from the streetlights peeked around the edges. No lamps were turned on and for a moment Anne just stood against the door, waiting for her eyes to adjust.
And there he was.
The various bandages stood out in stark contrast to his bare skin where he was curled on his side facing the door. She saw dark shadows across his face and torso that might be bruises, but it was hard to be sure. Venturing closer, she smiled at Esmé curled against his chest, one of his arms wrapped securely around the loyal pup. The dog shifted her gaze, tongue lolling out slightly in greeting, but otherwise she didn't move.
"Aramis?" she called softly. His face was tucked down into the back of Esmé's head, hidden in the fur between her ears. She couldn't say for sure he was awake, but if his brothers' reactions were a true indication of how bad this was, she doubted he would sleep a wink in the days to come.
He didn't say anything and didn't move to acknowledge her. Even Esmé didn't twitch, stayed pressed against his chest though her eyes glowed in the darkness.
"One word," she whispered. "Stay or go."
She'd been around for a few bad nights at this point, nothing as serious as he always warned her it could be, but bad enough that he would withdraw from her afterwards. She'd learned that simply giving him control of her actions in the situation made it easier for them both.
The moment of silence that followed felt longer than most.
"Stay." His voice was rough and low, laced with exhaustion and pain.
He still didn't look at her or move, so she drew in a slow breath and shed her shoes. With careful, controlled movements she climbed onto the bed behind him.
"Space or touch?" she asked.
"Space." The answer was immediate and a little sharper than his usual tone as if worried she was about to wrap around him like an octopus.
"Okay," she said. Curling up on the open side of the bed, she rested her head on the pillow and stared at his back. "I'm here," she whispered into the darkness.
She thought the line of tension in his back eased a bit after that.
She fell asleep watching the rise and fall of his ribs.
Present…
"What do you need?" she asked when he made no move to end their hug.
His breath shuddered against her neck, and he said nothing, just held her tighter. Anne lightly traced a hand soothingly down his spine, keeping the other curled around the back of his neck.
"Tell me what you need," she pleaded, turning her head slightly to press her lips to his hair. For a moment he was silent, and she thought he wouldn't reply, but then his words whispered across her neck,
"My brothers."
She held him tighter, already nodding.
"I'll take you home," she promised. "Come on. I'll take you to them right now."
He let her pull him to the exit and usher him to Athos's car. Esmé crowded into the passenger seat with him, positioning herself between his knees. Anne watched him comb his fingers into her fur and close his eyes, taking deep, measured breaths.
She may have broken a few speed limits to get him home.
She parked next to his motorcycle and turned the car off, waiting for him to make the first move. Instead, he stared up at the apartment building with haunted eyes.
"I left Porthos, alone and injured, with known hostiles."
Anne's breath caught at the sudden confession. She watched Aramis's profile as he stared up at his apartment.
"Athos was shot. D'Artagnan had what could have been a severe head injury. I had to make a choice."
Heat burned behind her eyes as she watched him curl his hands into fists.
"How was I supposed to make that choice?" he whispered, more to himself than to her, she thought. "No matter what I did, someone I cared about would suffer."
Anne reached out, moving slowly so that he would see her coming, and wrapped her hand around his clenched fist.
"I know your heart," she whispered fiercely. "And I know that no matter how you feel about the choice now, when you made it, you believed it was the right one, the one with the best chance of bringing everyone home alive."
He looked down at her hand over his, slowing unfurling his fingers and shifting so their palms pressed together, and their fingers twined.
"I don't deserve you," he whispered.
She leaned across the console, pressing a kiss to his temple.
"You're an idiot."
She grinned when his lips tugged upward, seemingly against his will. She let the humorous moment stand when all she wanted to do was tell him that if life was about getting what you deserved, then he should have the whole world at this point, because he deserved everything.
They both looked back up at the apartment when the front door opened and Porthos limped out, bracing his hands on the balcony rail, and looking down at them with wide, worried eyes.
"You need them," Anne reminded, "but remember that they need you too."
She gave his hand one last squeeze and then climbed out of the car, jogging around to hover as he hauled himself out as well. Esmé bounded up the stairs ahead of them, and Anne took the hand Aramis held out to her with a grin, matching his stride as he climbed his way up to their third-floor apartment.
When they reached the landing, Porthos was using the rail to straighten himself up from greeting Esmé.
"Mis," he said simply, half a lifetime of love and affection wrapped up in the simple nickname.
Anne wasn't at all surprised when Aramis pulled away from her and walked straight into Porthos' waiting embrace. The larger man's eyes closed in tangible relief as he wrapped his arms around Aramis' back and dropped his face to the leather clad shoulder.
Anne smiled warmly and slid silently past them into the apartment.
Athos stood in the living room, looking more uneasy than she'd ever seen him, but he was watching his two brothers through the door with visible relief in his eyes.
"Thank you," he said to her, voice earnest.
"Thank Constance. Whatever she said to him seemed to make a difference."
Athos shook his head and stepped closer, gripping her shoulder tightly.
"Thank you."
She realized then he wasn't just talking about today. He was talking about new deadbolts on her door and about food and water bowls for Esmé in her kitchen. He was talking about gentle words and gentler hands and patient understanding when Aramis didn't know how to accept either. He was talking about her toothbrush in a bathroom shared by Porthos and unresentful acceptance of Aramis' dedication to his brothers and his job.
He was talking about dropping everything at two in the morning because of three simple words.
He needs you.
She smiled and nodded acceptance.
Athos released her shoulder and they both turned to see Porthos pulling away, framing Aramis' battered jaw in his hands, and saying something very deliberate, but too low to hear. Whatever it was, Aramis shied away, stepping back, and ducking out of Porthos hold.
"He needed me last night," Anne said quietly, looking back at Athos. "He needs you both now."
Athos nodded solemnly and they watched Aramis step into the apartment, leaving a frustrated Porthos to follow behind.
"I'm going to go home," Anne said, leaning to press a kiss to the corner of Aramis's mouth. "I'll come back later," she promised.
Aramis nodded slightly, squeezing her fingers as she moved past him to the door.
She pulled the door closed after her, leaving the three men standing in the entry hall staring at each other in silence.
"Any word on d'Artagnan?" Aramis asked to break the quiet.
"Treville said he's been cleared to go home. It's my understanding that Constance went to retrieve him after you left," Athos reported.
"Pup's got a hard head," Porthos put in. "He'll be fine."
Aramis nodded slightly, resisting the urge to touch the scar above his ear, a testament that even the hardest head could sustain permanent damage.
They stood in silence for a few moments.
Aramis glanced down the hall towards his room, briefly contemplating escaping there to avoid the brewing conversation. Athos stopped such thoughts in their tracks.
"I let you both down and for that, I must beg your forgiveness."
Aramis snapped his head around, glaring at Athos in disbelief.
"Don't be an idiot, Athos," Porthos accused, limping past him to sink onto the couch.
"I'm the idiot?" Athos snapped back, nearly losing his balance on his crutch. He let Aramis herd him back to the recliner. "Aramis is the one beating himself up over an impossible choice. One he wouldn't have ever had to make if I had just held my ground."
"Would that holding your ground be before or after they shot you?" Porthos snarled from the couch. "Because the way I see it, if you were on my side of that grenade, you would have bled out in that damned desert."
Athos opened his mouth to argue further, but Aramis spoke first, quietly cutting through the argument and silencing them both.
"Porthos is right."
They both turned to stare at him. He sank down onto the coffee table with a far too familiar weariness weighing down his bones.
"Athos, if they hadn't driven you back and thrown you towards me, you'd have either been buried in the explosion or bled to death from the gunshot wound."
Athos stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. It was no wonder, after how Aramis had reacted in the tunnels.
"I wasn't thinking clearly then," Aramis confessed. "All I knew was that Porthos was on the other side of those rocks, and I couldn't get to him."
"Tunnel vision," Porthos explained, nodding knowingly. Aramis glanced at him, but Porthos didn't elaborate on when he had felt something similar.
They all sat in silence for a moment.
"You made the right call, 'Mis," Porthos said eventually. "It was the only call."
"No, not the only call," Aramis disagreed with a weary, resolved half grin. "But it's the one I have to live with, regardless."
"What would you have done otherwise? d'Artagnan couldn't even walk," Athos reminded.
"You don't get it." Aramis shook his head. "Neither of you do. I know I made the right choice. I know that. But that doesn't change anything because I still left Porthos behind and I can't…" he swallowed thickly, jaw clenching as he reigned in his emotions. "I can't seem to wrap my head around that."
"You had to," Porthos insisted. "You had to get them to the base."
"At the expense of you?"
"You came back for me."
"What if they'd killed you while I was gone?"
"They didn't."
"They could have."
"They didn't."
"They could have! How would I have lived with myself after that? Knowing that I'd sealed your fate?"
Porthos huffed out a frustrated breath.
"You got me back, Aramis. That's all that matters."
Aramis shook his head stubbornly.
"It's not all that matters, not to me."
"Do you really not see it?" Athos asked suddenly.
Both Aramis and Porthos snapped their heads around to look at him.
"I was there, you remember. I watched you stare at that pile of rocks, searching for the right path. I saw the toll it took to turn your back on it and chose to save d'Artagnan and me. But you did it because I know, in that moment, you believed you would find a way to come back for him. You carried d'Artagnan across a dessert on your back and still found the strength to walk across the same dessert again on nothing more than hope and faith. Then you did the impossible and brought him back. And yet, now you seek to punish yourself? Why?"
Aramis frowned thoughtfully and Porthos picked up the thread of Athos's reasoning.
"Because it might have turned out differently?" Porthos pressed. "It didn't. In fact, I'd say, given the situation, we ended up with the best-case scenario. You think that was by accident?"
"It wasn't," Athos put in firmly, in case Aramis had a mind to think it was. "The only reason any of us — Porthos, d'Artagnan and I — are alive is because of you."
"Because you're a single minded, hyper intelligent, insanely lethal badass. Do you think I want anyone else coming for me in that situation?" Porthos added. "No. Give this scenario to anyone else, and I never come home. That's a fact."
Aramis looked back and forth between them, clearly considering their words.
"I can't stop thinking of the 'what if's," he admitted quietly. "Round and round in my head since the moment I turned my back on those rocks."
"Shut that shit down," Porthos stated sharply. "You think I haven't been there? You think I didn't go round and round with 'what ifs' after Savoy?"
Aramis tensed like he was waiting for a blow at the mention of that doomed operation.
"What if your transfer had come in sooner? What if I'd been there with you? What if you'd had one less bullet in your gun? What if that bullet that creased your head had been aimed a quarter inch better? What if you hadn't realized what was happening in time? What if you were a fraction less of a stubborn bastard? What if, what if, what if? It would have driven me crazy. It was driving me crazy. Why do you think I held on so tightly back then?"
Aramis stared at him, eyes wide.
"I didn't know," he said.
Porthos shook his head.
"You were barely keeping your head above water. I wasn't going to put my problems on you too. You didn't know because I didn't want you to."
"How did you stop it?" Aramis asked quietly.
"Constance. She told me something that helped."
"What?"
"She told me I was so focused on what could have been that I had forgotten what was."
Aramis frowned and Porthos went on.
"I was holding on so tightly, that I was driving you away when you needed me most. I was so wrapped up in what might have been, that I wasn't paying enough attention to what had happened and to what you needed from me to get through it."
"You left Porthos behind," Athos stated, but there was no accusation in his voice. "There's no changing that. But you've gotten so wrapped up in what might have happened, that you've ignored what did happen."
Aramis only looked confused. Athos rolled his eyes while Porthos leaned forward to swat at Aramis's shoulder.
"You singlehandedly saved all of us, you big idiot. You want to risk that outcome by changing any of the choices you made?"
Aramis frowned thoughtfully.
"I guess not."
"We're all alive," Athos said. "Everyone came home. It's a win, Aramis."
Aramis scowled a little, hardly able to accept a mission that ended with everyone injured and their target dead could be a win. But then he remembered something Treville had told him after Savoy.
Sometimes getting home is all there is. Sometimes you're going to have to let that be enough.
He looked at first Athos, then Porthos and felt something loosen in his chest for the first time in days. With a sigh, he did his best to let this one go because Athos was right. Everyone came home.
This time, he could let that be enough.
ANGST GALORE. This started as a stray thought that I wanted Aramis going against orders somehow to save Porthos. As you can see, that exploded into this. Btw, I purposefully didn't label the "allied force" to which the base belonged, so you can fill that blank however you like.
Anyways, hope you enjoyed reading. Drop me a line below!