Chapter Text
He’d wanted to be romantic. He’d had it all set up, too. Aramis was supposed to be home by six-thirty, dinner would have been served at seven, and the rest of the evening would be spent on the slow but sure trip down the hallway to the bedroom where all sorts of fantastic, sweaty shenanigans would take place.
Only it was going on eight, Aramis was still delayed in a meeting that had run beyond late – he’d called at six forty-five to apologize and let off a string of fluent Spanish Porthos was sure wasn’t anything fit for polite company – and Porthos had finally given in and eaten a plate of lukewarm lasagna around seven-thirty.
He’d put the leftovers in the fridge and cleaned up the kitchen, tucking away the white pillar candles he’d decorated the table with back in with their emergency storm supplies. Hell, he was bored enough to contemplate taking out the garbage, something he and Aramis all but flipped a coin for each week.
The door to the apartment shut; Porthos leaned against the counter as Aramis appeared in the doorway, ever-present backpack slung over his shoulder. He rested a shoulder against the molding, chewed on his bottom lip, and softly said, “I’m sorry.”
“S’not your fault,” Porthos said with a shrug.
“Still doesn’t make it right.” He ducked his chin and looked at his boyfriend through hair hanging over his forehead. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“I know you will.”
Aramis dropped the backpack as Porthos stalked forward, crowding him back into the entryway and against the wall. He tipped his chin up, fingers curled into Porthos’s shirt at his sides in order to draw him in closer.
They rubbed noses for a second or two until they slotted together in the right way, Aramis’s lips opening under the gentle but persistent pressure of Porthos’s mouth.
“Long day,” Porthos breathed, trailing kisses along Aramis’s jaw. “Hungry?”
He made a noise of approval deep in his throat. “Mm – yes, but…” He let out a shuddering breath as muscled thigh slipped between his own. “I want dessert first.”
The world tilted; Aramis kept a fistful of shirt in his possession at all times as he was walked backward down the short hall to their bedroom. His legs hit the mattress and he tumbled onto the duvet, taking Porthos with him.
With the exception that they were both still wearing too many clothes and neither of them could reach the tube of KY in the nightstand yet, it was perfect.
Until the Benny Hill theme song started to play from Aramis’s back pocket.
“Damn it,” he muttered, wiggling around until he could get at his phone.
Porthos buried his nose in the crook of Aramis’s neck and pressed kisses to the bits of skin he could reach without moving his head much. Even so it was awkward for Aramis to get the phone to his ear, and he finally answered it on speaker. “Hello?”
”Hi guys. Hope – is this a good time?
“Sort of?” Aramis buried the fingers of his free hand in Porthos’s hair, tugging gently when the bigger man let out a snort that was half amusement, half irritation.
”Look, can you meet us at the hospital? Athos and I – we ran into some trouble.”
“How much trouble?” Porthos asked, rolling off of Aramis.
”Not – no, Athos, don’t touch that, okay? Don’t make it worse. I’ll give you the details later, but he’s got a dislocated shoulder and a broken collarbone. I need to know his allergies.”
“He’s not allergic to anything,” Aramis said, leaving the phone on the bed in order to adjust himself in his jeans.
”So they can give him some painkillers?”
“Yes. Wait – no. No!” He picked up the device and started after Porthos, glad he hadn’t even had a chance to take off his shoes yet. “He can’t have Percocet!”
Porthos shuddered. “No. Anything but that.”
”You just said he wasn’t allergic to anything!”
“He’s not,” Aramis explained slowly, following Porthos down the stairs and out of their apartment building toward his car parked on the street. “But he can’t have Percocet.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“We’ll explain when we get there, but he can’t have Percocet,” Porthos said as they got in the car. “Which hospital?”
”Hopital General de Quebec. They know us the best.”
Yes, the staff there did indeed know them the best. They also knew to keep the four of them together, if possible. It helped keep whoever was in the hospital bed calm.
“Okay. We’ll be there soon. d’Artagnan,” Aramis added, channeling his inner Athos with a tone that left no room for argument. “Absolutely no Percocet.”
Whatever d’Artagnan said was drowned out by a flurry of sound on the other end; Aramis ended the call.
“God, I hope they don’t give him that,” Porthos muttered.
“You and me both.” If there was one more thing he never wanted to witness again it was that.
Three Years Ago
“You can go right on in, gentlemen,” the nurse in blue scrubs said, motioning with her clipboard to the little curtain cubicle. “He stitched up just fine, and we’ve given him something for the pain.”
“Thank you,” Aramis said, fiddling with his shirttails to make sure his holster was covered. He felt odd about wandering armed through a hospital, though the prospect of not carrying was odder still.
He poked his head around the curtain, Porthos literally breathing down his neck.
Athos, sitting bare-chested on a gurney, didn’t look up from where his hands twisted nervously in his lap. Something hard and cold settled in Aramis’s chest under his breastbone, and he hesitantly crept closer with a soft, “Athos?”
He finally looked up, eyes wide and with a forced serenity. They flicked between Porthos and the doorway, and landed only briefly on Aramis.
“Athos?” Aramis tried again.
“Who – who’re you?” Athos brought the hand not in a sling to his mouth, biting at his knuckles.
Porthos swore quietly; Aramis stiffened.
“It’s us,” he said. “Aramis and Porthos.”
“No, no, no,” Athos said, waving a hand at the pair of them. “I meant them.” He pointed to the open doorway. “Who is that?”
They turned in unison, expecting a doctor or nurse hovering in the hallway beyond.
It was empty.
Aramis, without stopping to think about it, crossed the distance between them and eased onto the gurney next to Athos. Under a clear bandage on Athos’s bicep was a line of neat stitches from where they medical professionals had dug out an errant bullet. There had probably been some wall fragments, too.
Things had gotten hairy for a minute or two. They had gotten considerably less confusing after Porthos put a bullet in a New York City transplant mob boss. Things had been slightly up hill from there.
“Athos,” he said softly, “what do you see?”
“A bear.” Athos picked at the blood spatter on his jeans, not doubt from himself. “A big yellow bear with a red hat.” His words slurred together a little, and he seemed to take second or two to coordinate his thoughts when he was ready to speak.
Porthos eased out into the hallway with the intent to find Athos’s doctor.
“There’s a clown behind him,” he mentioned casually.
“Oh?” Aramis looked in the same direction when Athos did.
He nodded solemnly and said, “He’s holding a gun on the bear.”
Aramis’s only thought was well, that escalated quickly.
“It’s okay,” he said with a shudder. “The clown killed the bear but then the purple spiders ate the clown.”
“Athos – “
“S’not what my Mama called me.”
Feeling like the air had been sucked out of the room, Aramis leaned forward so he could see Athos’s face. “Oh?”
He shook his head vigorously enough for Aramis to worry about falling over. “Nope. Mama called me Olivier. That’s what she named me.”
This was a thread of lucid conversation Aramis could get behind. “My mother named me Rene.”
There was a low whistle from the doorway; Porthos stood there with a petite woman in a white coat.
“Olivier? Will you stay right here? Porthos and I want to talk with your doctor and then we’ll take you home.” He made sure Athos was going to stay where he was before he headed for the doctor.
“Don’t have a home,” Athos called, swaying slightly now that Aramis’s stabilizing shoulder was gone. “Hotel.”
The cold feeling in his chest intensified, and he wondered if this was what it was like to navigate a minefield.
“You live in a hotel?” Porthos asked from the doorway.
Athos looked at his hands again. “Yup. Don’t wan’ the house. M’wife killed my little brother and she’s still – she still…” he trailed off.
“It’s like she’s still there in the house,” Aramis finished for him. “Tell you what. We talk to your doctor, and then, at least for a little bit, we take you to our house. You stay with us until you find a place that’s home.” He glanced at Porthos and saw only acceptance – and a smattering of love – in the other man’s eyes.
While Athos neither fully accepted nor declined, he seemed a little more settled. Aramis considered it a positive, and he joined the others while rubbing absently at his sternum.
“It’s a side effect of the Percocet,” the woman said. “In a small percentage of adolescent and adult patients it has unusual effects. We’re working on filling a script for another type of painkiller, and he should – hopefully – hit a point where he sleeps.”
“If he doesn’t?” Porthos had to ask.
“He will. It’s just a matter of sooner or later.” She gave them a reassuring smile. “We’re working on his discharge papers, too, and we’ll give you both when they’re ready.”
“Thank you.” Aramis ran his fingers through his hair. There wasn’t anything to say – not that he could find the right words, which was a definite first for him – and he settled for resting his forehead against the wall.
“Athos? What are you doing?”
He turned; Athos had his head tipped back and was staring at the ceiling with a mix of fascination and apprehension.
“I’m counting the blue ants on the ceiling,” Athos said placidly. “They’re moving a tree to the river, and it’s quite the process.”
Aramis swore no one would ever give him Percocet again. Porthos decided it was better to go with the flow than fight the tide, and plopped himself down next to Athos while asking if he’d managed to count the ones in the corner. He was dutifully informed they were orange, and therefore didn’t contribute toward the total.
“Seriously?” d’Artagnan said, arms over his chest.
“Seriously.” Porthos shoved his hands in his pockets. “Athos on Percocet is like Aramis on acid.”
Aramis punched him hard on the arm as d’Artagnan’s eyes went huge and he squeaked out, “You’ve done acid?”
“No,” he growled. “It wasn’t acid. It couldn’t even count as mushrooms.” He glared at the bigger man. “I’ll get even.”
“I look forward to it,” Porthos said with a grin.
“Of course you do,” he muttered. “Hey.”
Athos made his way unsteadily down the hallway, one hand on the wall for balance. His right arm was strapped to his chest and he was paler than normal, but he otherwise seemed alright.
And not likely to be counting blue ants on the ceiling anytime soon.
“Vicodin,” Athos said, holding up a pill bottle.
“Nap time for you, then.” Aramis smiled sweetly.
“I need a drink first.” He walked right by the three of them, intent on the pneumatic doors to the parking lot.
“You’re gonna need more than that,” Porthos called to him. “You’ve got to explain to Treville why you need medical leave.”
Athos’s response was less than fit for polite company. Aramis found the purple spiders a smidgen more appealing of a prospect than a royally pissed off Treville.