Chapter Text
Porthos was angry.
No, scratch that- angry wasn't even close to cutting it anymore.
Livid. Furious. Enraged . These seemed to him to be more accurate descriptors of his current emotional state, not to mention the nagging urge at the back of his mind to dismount his horse, stalk over to Aramis', pull the latter down, and beat him black and blue until he apologised or, at the very least, got some sense knocked into that stupid head of his.
The head he'd come extremely close to losing today, once again. To be completely fair to both parties, that wasn't exactly an unusual occurrence for the younger man- even after having spent the past four years apart, Porthos had been hard-pressed to forget Aramis' tendencies to get himself into the worst kind of scrapes, often due to circumstances that could be easily avoided.
Case in point: Grimaud wouldn't have captured him had he trusted the rest of them with the Queen's secret mission, but that was a whole another pile of horseshit that Porthos was currently not in a sound enough presence of mind to debate with the newly reinstated musketeer (see again: beating him black and blue).
No, what had really set Porthos off was the way in which Aramis had asked -no, demanded - Porthos shot him in order to get Grimaud, too. Even remembering the scene made Porthos quite literally see red; the way that bastard Grimaud held Aramis, all beat up and weakened from hanging from his arms for two days, in front of him like a human shield. Aramis struggling and snarling like a savage animal with whatever little strength he still possessed, trying his earnest to get out of Grimaud's vice-like grip and free the way for the other musketeers to take the killing shot. Then, realising he was not strong enough at the moment to win that fight, slackening in the traitor's clutches like a puppet with its strings cut off and yelling at Athos, Porthos, or anyone who was currently listening, to just take the damn shot and be done with it . Even if it meant killing him in the process.
For a moment, it had almost seemed as if Aramis wanted to die, right then and there.
And that was precisely what had set Porthos off so spectacularly, because not only has Aramis left them for four fucking years to fight an entire war on their own, not only had he been meeting with the Queen in secret when that had nearly cost him and her their heads and had driven him to running away to hide in a damn monastery, not only had they only just got him back… but he had the unbelievable nerve to just throw his life away like it was worth nothing. What was more, he had looked Porthos - Porthos of all people!- in the eye and demanded the latter put a bullet through his heart like it meant nothing. Like it was just a game to him, a gamble, something to be easily done and never again considered while his stupid corpse lay down there and waited for the crows to pick.
'We learned to live without you'.
And- alright, fine . Maybe… maybe some of it was Porthos' fault. Maybe he shouldn't have said that. Not in those words, anyway. But it wasn't like Aramis had sought him out to talk about after, no, the fool just withdrew and kept to himself even when they'd gotten back at the garrison and Treville had reinstated him. He no longer fooled around with random lady friends every night, which if Porthos were being honest came slightly as a surprise; he'd assumed Aramis, having most likely remained celibate for the past four years, would be eager to dabble into this sort of pastime again as soon as he was given the chance. But no, Aramis simply spent his time training on his own, or shutting himself in his room and praying (because he obviously hadn't done enough of that for four entire years, but alright). He rarely went out for drinks with them at night, always coming up with an excuse to avoid it; he was tired, he had to clean his weapons, he was on stable duty, a cadet had asked for his help with shooting practice, he was coming down with a cold. After a while, the other three had simply stopped asking, despite d'Artagnan's insistence on doing so- Athos and Porthos, who had known Aramis the longest, had assured him he'd come around eventually.
But they'd been wrong- because Aramis hadn't come around at all, instead isolating himself even further, and apparently running off and into the Queen's open arms instead of, oh, maybe trusting them instead .
It was unfair. It was so, so, so unfair, especially so because Porthos, despite his anger and the soul-deep feeling of betrayal, had wanted Aramis to come back to them. To trust them blindly as they'd all done for each other, once upon a time.
But, no. That time was gone for good, it seemed, never to return. And then Aramis had also gone and almost gotten himself killed.
They hadn't spoken after the (unsuccessful) end of their efforts to kill or at the very least capture Grimaud. Athos had been too entangled with his inner demons, d'Artagnan had had his hands full with his cousin, and Porthos didn't trust himself to even exist around Aramis without knocking the other man's teeth out of his head, so he'd simply stalked away back to camp along with the other men, and focused on preparing for their departure. Prisoners were once again loaded onto the wagon, fires doused, saddles and stirrups inspected, men lining up single-file with the cart secured in the middle of the long queue. Once settled comfortably atop his stallion, Porthos chanced a look around to ensure everyone was in position and ready to go-
-and saw that there was still one man on the ground rather than mounted. Aramis.
He was standing next to his mare, wearily leaning against her neck as she nuzzled the side of his head and wickered softly, clearly still distressed by the ordeal she and her rider had been subjected to. Porthos saw Aramis' lips move in soft whispers as he endeavoured to reassure his companion, but whereas Porthos had expected the other musketeer to pet the horse's neck and face in the usual comforting motion, his arms hung limply by his sides in a strange, almost lifeless manner.
He was about to call out to Aramis to hurry, that they didn't have all day and that they'd already lost quite a bit of time because of his antics, but he'd scarcely opened his mouth when Athos trotted up by his side on his own horse.
"Is he alright?" He asked, nodding towards Aramis. Porthos snapped his mouth closed and grinded his teeth together, simmering outrage once again bubbling to the surface.
"How should I know? 'M not his nanny."
"You were pretty concerned about him earlier," the captain of the musketeers pointed out. "You almost bit Treville's head off when he suggested we bide our time."
"That's not the same," Porthos fired back, "I didn' wanna see him dead, obviously. But 'e's fine now, I reckon. We saved 'is sorry ass, and not even a thank you. He asked us to shoot 'im , Athos."
"I know, friend. I am as angry as you are. But this… " Athos gestured vaguely between himself, Porthos, and then Aramis, "whatever it is, it won't help. You'll need to talk to him about it, sooner or later. With your words, not your fists."
He said the last part with a pointed look, and Porthos let out a small, guilty grumble. "Fine, alright. No fists this time. If we even make it back to Paris, that is."
He gently pressed his heels against his horse's sides, and the animal set forth slowly with a snort, walking up to where Aramis and his own mount were still standing.
"You comin' or what?" He'd really tried to keep the worst of his animosity out of his voice, but it still came out hostile and sharp, like a challenge. Porthos couldn't find it in him to regret it, though; not yet. Not for a long time still, perhaps. He'd adhere to Athos' advice and try to be civil about it, but civil didn't necessarily mean polite. It just meant no yelling, and preferably not getting physical with each other. That, Porthos reckoned he could do.
Probably.
Because when Aramis raised tired, mirthless dark eyes his way with a small frown, Porthos began to reconsider.
"You go ahead," the younger man said quietly, but there was a hint of sharpness in his usually mellow tone, too. "Chèrie is too distressed to mount for now. We'll catch up in a bit."
The mare indeed appeared quite upset, digging furrows in the wet, grassy ground with one hoof and lashing her tail this way and that, but Porthos wouldn't be so easily fooled.
"I've seen 'er ride through the streets of Paris during a riot. Whatever's wrong with 'er now, she can take you to Paris. Unless you'd rather stay here or whatever. Maybe run back to your monastery when we ain't looking?"
He knew he was being petty and, yes, quite unfair. Aramis had just gotten out of two days in the hands of a fucking soulless monsters, after all. But Porthos didn't understand - couldn't understand- this distance, this rift between them, the secrecy in the very way Aramis held himself and looked at him over his shoulder, as if he was trying in earnest to hide parts of himself from his brothers.
From Porthos. His oldest friend in this goddamn regiment, the other half of his soul. The two of them had been as one, before, but now it felt as if they hardly even knew each other.
It tore Porthos apart, the pain. And it only cut deeper when Aramis glared at him, almost physically retreating back into himself.
"You have made it clear you do not think much of me anymore, brother ," Aramis spat the word almost like a curse, and for the first time in their endless back-and-forths ever since the other man had returned to the regiment, Porthos felt as if he were the one to have been dealt a physical blow, "but you cannot possibly believe me capable of stealing away while no one's looking. I was brave enough to do it in front of you last time, and that, at least, hasn't changed."
Aramis was angry , Porthos realised just then. Truly angry, almost as much as he himself was, if not more. Distantly, he seemed to recall how patient the younger musketeer was, but also how truly vicious he could become when he was goaded and pushed past that endless limit. Suddenly, Porthos felt like a scolded child.
"...Sorry," he mumbled, avoiding Aramis' resentful glare. "Spoke outta turn there. Just… get up on that horse and let's get going, 'kay? We're needed back in Paris."
Aramis didn't immediately respond. Instead, Porthos heard him let out a long, weary sigh, and when he turned his eyes back towards him, he saw that Aramis had leaned his head against Chèrie's neck and had closed his eyes halfway.
"...Aramis?" Porthos dared, his voice suddenly small- because no matter what had come between them, Aramis was still his brother, or at least had been once upon a time, and that still had to count for something. The bond between them seemed to stubbornly persist no matter how hard both of them had frayed and abused it, and almost instinctively, Porthos knew at that moment that something was terribly wrong.
And that deep-rooted instinct was proven correct when Aramis softly whispered, "I can't."
Tensing immediately upon the saddle, Porthos growled. "What do you mean you can't?"
Aramis made a small, frustrated noise, baring his teeth like a trapped wolf. "I can't- I just… can't lift my arms."
The admission seemed to pain him much more than whatever was wrong with him did, and Porthos felt a sudden, bone-deep stab of regret so sharp that it almost drew tears out of his eyes. Quickly, without allowing himself more time to mull it over and say or do something that would make the situation worse, he threw one leg over his horse's back and dismounted, dropping to the ground and covering the distance between him and his lost brother in three quick strides.
"How bad?" he asked immediately, voice low and large, wide shoulders angled in such a manner as to shield Aramis from the looks of any of the other men. That was instinct, too- he still remembered how hard it was for Aramis to admit to any weakness, even in front of the other Inseparables, let alone the rest of the regiment. Even when it came to injuries that would have had other men down on the ground and writhing in agony, Aramis had always tried to hide his pain from them, to pretend everything was alright. And despite the whole world having come between them ever since then, Porthos would never be as cruel as to ridicule Aramis by exposing his suffering to every random onlooker.
He was angry, yes. Furious. But not cruel.
And in spite of everything, every harsh word and every punch and every glare, he did not hate Aramis. He could never hate him, no matter what.
"I…" Aramis' voice was strained as he tried to reply, and although he was still not looking at Porthos, the latter knew it was shame rather than pain that made it so. Somehow, that was even worse. "Grimaud kept me hanging from a wooden beam by my wrists. I suppose… that's why."
Porthos briefly considered pointing out that Aramis had oh-so-cleverly avoided answering his actual question, but he decided there wasn't much point to doing so. He was familiar with what that kind of strain did to one's body, anyway; he was no medic, nowhere near knowledgeable on the matter as Aramis himself was, but he'd been taught the way that kind of torture pulled at muscle and strained bone and joint, and how prolonged exposure to it could do irreparable damage to the arms, shoulders and even lungs, as the prisoner would be forced to breathe shallowly, lungs straining against the body's entire weight and pressing against the over-stretched ribcage with every breath. Suddenly, it dawned on him that it was a miracle Aramis was even standing.
"...Okay. Alright." Porthos sucked in a deep breath, if only to steady himself against the warring onslaught of concern, anger and regret that battered him from all sides. "That… That just means we gotta get to Paris even faster and get you a physician. So here's what we're gonna do: Athos will take Chèrie, and you'll ride with me. No buts-"
He held up a hand when he saw Aramis open his mouth, likely to protest.
"You said it yourself, you can't lift your arms. So even if we did get you on that horse, you'd fall face-first into the mud as soon as she started to move. You're in no condition to be ridin' on your own, an' I'm still very much mad at you for five hundred different reasons, so you better do as I say without whinging 'bout it. Do we have a deal?"
Aramis dark eyes pierced him with an affronted intensity that spoke volumes about how happy he was with their 'deal', but in the end, he knew better than to argue- there was nothing to argue about, anyway, because Porthos had been right on all accounts, which they both knew. So he simply let his shoulders sag with a small wince, and nodded once before hiding his face into Chèrie's soft black mane again.
With nothing else to say about it, Porthos called over to d'Artagnan, who had finally sent his cousin off on his merry way and had rejoined the group of musketeers preparing to depart. "Hey, Pup! Come give me a hand here, eh?"
"When will you stop calling me that?" Asked d'Artagnan as he galloped close to their position, eyebrows scrunched in a very offended manner. "We've been at war together for four years , I'm no longer a newly minted recruits to play pranks at."
Porthos, despite the situation, found it in himself to throw the lad a sharp, wicked grin. "Nah, you're still the youngest one among us four, so you're still the Pup as far as I'm concerned. Now gimme a hand with this idiot here, 'e can't seem to get on 'is horse…"
Only after he and d'Artagnan had flanked Aramis, one on either side of him, and were helping him over to Porthos' horse, did Porthos realise he'd said four , not three . As if Aramis had never even left, as if they'd never stopped being the four Inseparables, not even for a day. It had come so naturally to him, and even though d'Artagnan didn't seem to have noticed (he'd been the one to accept Aramis back into their fold more readily than anyone else, after all), he knew Aramis had, by the way the latter’s features had twitched slightly, for a moment letting his inner turmoil show more clearly than any spoken word could have.
Porthos was seized by the sudden, violent need to crush Aramis against his chest and never let him go again, and only held himself back from it because of how painful it would surely be for the other man.
(And, fine , because he was also still angry and he wasn't going to let Aramis off the hook quite this easily. Not before they had a long, serious talk about it like Athos had suggested. But that could wait until Aramis had been looked after and swaddled in an armful of blankets like a babe, and Porthos having made sure he wasn't actively dying on him. Then they could attempt negotiations.)
It was a painstaking ordeal, quite literally and metaphorically, to get Aramis on top of Porthos' horse. By the time the marksman was seated somewhat steadily on the saddle, even Porthos was panting with exertion, and Aramis himself was deathly pale; he'd remained entirely silent throughout the process save for a gasp or two, but it was clear now that the pain was bad enough he was close to passing out because of it. All too aware of the fact, Porthos hastily chambered up behind the other man and secured him with a careful yet firm hold, wrapping a strong arm around Aramis' lower torso in order to avoid putting pressure on his sides and shoulders. D'Artagnan cast them a doubtful look from below, head cocked to the side.
"Perhaps stopping at an inn along the way would be best," he suggested, eyes worriedly scanning Aramis' swaying form. "There's a small town a half hour's ride from here, I'm sure they'll have a physician…"
"No," Aramis murmured for the first time in a disconcertingly long while, sounding quite alert, although he kept his eyes closed. "I… I can make the ride. Been through worse. 'S only a few hours till Paris."
If his slurred words had been meant to reassure the Gascon, they had failed miserably. D'Artagnan's face darkened even further and he looked even more unconvinced than before, but Porthos nodded at him.
"He'll make it. An' we're expected back, anyway, before things with the Queen's reputation can get worse. Not to mention Treville likely havin' an apoplexy as we speak."
"Well, can't argue with that," the youngest musketeer said with a wince, before grabbing onto his own horse's reins and gracefully swinging on top of the animal as if he'd been doing so from the day he was born (likely, Porthos mused, he had). "But- be careful. I'll be on the front with Athos, but I'll come to check back on you two in a while."
He cast a level look at both of them, eyebrows arching knowingly. "Do try not to murder each other. It would make all this effort to save Aramis go to waste, and besides it's terrible manners, assaulting a wounded man."
"I'm not wounded," Aramis interjected tiredly. "Merely… temp'rily incapacitated."
D'Artagnan snorted, but his lips twitched into a small, fond smile. "Yeah, keep telling yourself that I guess."
"Don't worry," Porthos butted in, reassuring the other man. "I'll be nice to him. For now."
He'd meant it as a joke, a sort of awkward olive branch stretched out in reconciliation, but when he felt Aramis tense against him he winced. Alright, then, perhaps this wasn't going to work just yet.
"Tell Athos we'll be in the back. See you in Paris."
As d'Artagnan galloped off, Porthos gently clucked his tongue and urged his horse onward towards the back of the company, and the long way back home.
The ride was only about three hours at the pace of a company carrying prisoners, but even that had been enough to drain whatever little strength Aramis had left. Porthos had to hold him tighter and tighter as the minutes ticked by, to keep him from slumping off the saddle, and gradually the marksman had begun to shiver slightly with cold or pain or both, although he'd scarcely made a sound to complain. Porthos, abandoning all thoughts of remaining stern until the chaos between them was properly resolved, had begun muttering quiet words of comfort and encouragement after a while, hoping to provide whatever little support he could.
"C'mon, Aramis. Just a little more. We're almost there, see? We'll get you restin' before you know it."
Aramis had not replied, not once; but at some point his hand, cold and numb and clumsy, had found Porthos' and had squeezed his fingers feebly, acknowledging his words and silently showing his gratitude for them.
It almost felt as if not a day had passed since they'd last had each other's backs, before Douai and the war, and it was the closest Porthos had felt to Aramis ever since the latter had come back to them.
He only wished it hadn't taken Aramis suffering for him to see that.
"You were fightin' pretty fiercely against Grimaud back there," Porthos said at some point, if only to strike up some form of conversation and distract Aramis from his many pains. "No idea how you did it like that."
"Adrenaline, I s'ppose," Aramis slurred weakly, his head resting against Porthos' shoulder. He'd long since given up on trying to sit straight. "You came charging in and… you'd have been hurt. Had to do som'thn… had to stop him…"
That brought back all too vivid memories of Aramis asking Porthos to shoot him, to kill him if it would mean stopping Grimaud, too, so the taller musketeer decided to steer away from that topic, because he didn't trust himself with it, but now was hardly the time to yell at Aramis about it. That time would come soon, of course… but for now, it could wait.
"Well, guess adrenaline can only get you that far," he said instead, voice tight and awkward. But Aramis hummed in agreement and didn't pursue the topic further, which was a victory. Sort of. In a way. "You taught me that, remember? That the body can overlook even the worst of injuries in the heat an' rush of battle, an' that one should be careful, because that may make you bleed to death, not even realising you've been shot until it's too late."
Porthos had been in danger of precisely that once or twice, in fact. Aramis had been so furious with him after, that he'd spent the entire week during which Porthos was recovering, instructing him on every delicate detail of the matter and drilling into him ways to look out for it and avoid it. Porthos had, of course, retained only the basics: if shot, don't ignore. Seek Aramis, get stitches. Mission accomplished. His response had made Aramis laugh so hard he'd all but toppled off the stool he was sitting on, by Porthos' bedside, and had caused Porthos to bring it up at random times ever since then to make his friend burst out laughing in undesirable circumstances, such as during the funeral of an important count, or when Treville was lecturing them about not throwing rotten eggs inside the cardinal's office in their off days.
Good times , Porthos thought with a small smile. What wouldn't he give to go back to them, even for an instant.
"I'm glad you remember," came Aramis' weak, delayed reply from in front of him, bringing him out of his little reverie. "Hope you didn' get too carried away… while I wasn't here to sew you up?"
All traces of merry recollection vanished from Porthos' expression, his hand tightening a little around the reins. "Yeah, well… let's not talk 'bout that right now. Later, when you're feelin' better."
"S'rry…" Aramis really did sound regretful, and Porthos let out a small sigh.
"Save your strength. Look, we're almost at the city gate. We'll talk later."
And he hoped it would mean something. It had to.
He couldn't come so close to getting Aramis back, to forgiving each other, only to drift apart again.
Their return ended up being way more eventful than Porthos would have liked; the mob was calling for Anne's head, the Red Guard was one wrong word away from outright dissent, and Sylvie had been accused for something she hadn't done and publicly whipped, which had resulted in Athos running off to her rescue and care as soon as he'd heard of it. D'Artagnan was left to manage the mess and report to the queen on his own, and suddenly Porthos was alone on his horse in the middle of the courtyard with a semi-conscious Aramis in his arms and nobody to help except an eager cadet whose name he couldn't for the life of him recall, running up to meet them.
"Need any help, sirs?"
What does it look like , Porthos thought darkly, but didn't say anything. The youth was only trying to be helpful, after all, and it wouldn't do to blow up in the face of innocents, so he simply nodded.
"Bring a stool, then go call a physician," he said, repositioning his arms around Aramis' body to better help him down.
The boy cast him a look that showed exactly how confident he was in Porthos' ability to maneuvre both Aramis and himself safely off the horse without assistance, but he seemed to possess enough sense of self-preservation to not actually voice any of it. Instead he gave a quick, clipped nod and a clumsily executed salute before he darted off towards the stables. He reappeared a minute later with the requested stool and, after positioning it right next to the side of the horse as Porthos instructed him, ran off and out of the garrison gates to look for a physician. Unfortunately, old Lupin had died during the war and Arsene, his apprentice, had been conscripted in the infantry, so the garrison was currently lacking a resident medical professional. Athos had said he'd remedy that, but, well. It wasn't like he'd had much free time to sit down and look for an appropriate military surgeon.
At least they had Aramis now, he thought grimly, although it would be quite hard for their medic to patch himself up in this case. Not to mention he wasn't even close to being in shape to take care of anybody else; Athos would have to find his own physician to take care of Sylvie, Porthos thought, which he recognised was extremely petty and mean-spirited of him, but he couldn't believe Athos had abandoned Aramis, wounded as he was, to go save a girl he barely new. Surely as captain, he could send someone else on it and stay with his wounded brother instead. As he should.
Oh, he'd give Athos a piece of his mind about it, alright. Not even Aramis had ever run off on any of them while they were wounded, for the sake of a woman. Or anyone else, really. And, sure, he'd run off for four years in Douai but that was not the same, not nearly the same, and anyway, that was between the four of them, not-
His angry avalanche of thoughts came to a screeching halt when Aramis seized up in his arms with a loud groan, and Porthos realised that, in his anger, he had dug his fingers quite forcefully into the marksman's abused shoulder. Quickly, he relaxed his grip.
"Sorry, sorry," he muttered, gently moving his hand downward to squeeze Aramis'. The other man let out a small gasp, trying to work through the pain currently assaulting his senses.
"I… I know you're cross with me-" he breathed haltingly, voice trembling with agony and exhaustion, "but ev- even for you… this is quite cruel."
Porthos blinked, momentarily confused. Then the meaning of Aramis' insinuation crashed onto him like a loaded carriage wagon, and he let out a horrified grunt in protest. "No, Aramis, that's not- 'm not angry with you. I mean, I am , but I wasn' thinking of- I wouldn't hurt you! Not while… not like this!"
He'd be lying if he'd said he hadn't wanted to get physical with Aramis over his four-year-adventure, of course, and all four of them had traded blows with each other throughout the years at one point or the other, especially when tensions ran high and/or wine plenty. But they had never, in all their years of friendship, sought to use the pain of one of them against the injured musketeer. It was almost like an unspoken rule between them; when one of them was hurt, no matter the others' grievances with their injured brother, they were to provide care and comfort and leave everything else aside until danger had passed and the wounds were properly treated.
And Porthos realised suddenly how terribly it hurt that Aramis seemed to think himself no longer worthy of that rule. Essentially, it drove home just how separated and distant from them Aramis felt- no longer a member of their close-knit brotherhood, but instead an outsider to be treated with no love or care, to be punished by them instead.
Porthos was filled with the sudden urge to punch himself in the face for not having seen it clearly up until now. Sure, he was hurting too. A lot. But he had let that pain turn into anger and blind him to the suffering he actually shared with his estranged brother, more than either of them seemed to understand.
"Porthos… you alright?"
The brawler blinked and looked up, meeting Aramis' eyes, glazed with pain and shadowed by dark, bruise-like circles underneath that showed just how exhausted he was. Porthos swallowed back the renewed stab of guilt and nodded.
"Fine. Worry more about yourself, yeah?" He attempted a small, pained smile as he realised that despite the giant chasm stretching between them, Aramis had once again been concerned for his brother's health despite his own injuries. So much had changed, and yet some small things like that seemed to remain the same, no matter how much time had passed. "Let's… Let's jus' get ya off this horse and into a proper bed."
"Yes," Aramis assented, blinking slowly. "I would like that, I think."
Of course, that part about getting off the horse and down on solid ground was easier said than done by a large margin. The two men agreed that the first step should be Porthos climbing down first in order to help Aramis do the same, although there was the question of whether the marksman possessed enough strength to remain seated atop the steed on his own. The younger musketeer insisted he could manage a few minutes, though, so Porthos gave up trying to think of anything better and easily vaulted off his stallion's back and onto the ground, landing soundly on his feet. He looked back at Aramis, raising his strong arms up invitingly.
"Let yourself fall, I'll catch you," he promised, to which Aramis winced in anticipation of the pain surely to come.
"Guess there's no other choice…" He murmured, then carefully lifted one leg over the back of the horse so that both his legs were dangling from the same side. It was somewhat of a struggle without any use of his arms to provide support, but in the end he managed it without tumbling off the eternally patient beast, although at some point he did sway precariously backwards, causing Porthos to jump and prepare to drag him down all pell-mell if it prevented him from falling to the ground headfirst.
"Careful there," Porthos grunted, then motioned with one raised hand. "C'mon. Just slide down."
Aramis took a deep breath to steel himself, and gave an answering nod. Without his arms to aid him, he simply leaned forward slightly, allowing his weight to pull him off the saddle. Porthos immediately surged forward and caught him, holding him upright when his knees buckled unsteadily as soon as his feet hit the ground. As careful as the older man was, though, the reverberation from the ground and the minimal pressure to his back and sides where Porthos arms were pressing against him, made him gasp loudly in pain.
"Porthos- gentle, please -" Aramis breathed in a whisper, his voice cracking and the carefully constructed impassive mask slipping as agony overcame him. Quickly, Porthos adjusted his hold, letting the other man lean against him without touching Aramis himself.
"You okay?" He asked, pointlessly but without much else to do as his concern threatened to spill over. Aramis groaned.
"I… will be," he managed, and Porthos decided to take all that he could out of the situation and just be thankful his friend hadn't fallen unconscious or something.
"Good. Just a little bit more now. I'll help you to your room."
The climb up the stairs was slower than it should have normally been, but at least Aramis' legs still worked perfecty well, and while he struggled to hold himself upright and he was much slower going up than normal, they made it to his room at the first floor of the garrison without any more unfortunate incidents. Porthos propped the door open with a discarded book so the cadet (and hopefully the physician he'd bring) would be able to locate them more easily, while Aramis simply plopped down onto his bed with a small groan.
"That's my Bible," he pointed out without any heat, eyes looking at the book Porthos had just used as a doorstop. "Show it a little more respect."
"I'm sure God won't mind," Porthos replied gruffly, approaching the bed. "I'm much more worried 'bout you than a book, however holy it might be."
"Why?" Aramis blurted out helplessly, his eyes widening a little in surprise when he realised he'd asked aloud. Still, it was too late to take it back now, so he simply looked up at Porthos, eyes filled with pain and confusion. "Why are you even bothering with me, Porthos? You've made it clear that you- all of you… that I'm not part of your team anymore. so… why? Athos ran away, d'Artagnan didn't even bother, so why are you still here?"
"Are you really so eager to get rid of me, then?" Porthos snapped, Aramis' stubbornness doing little to help him rein in his already boiling temper. "Sorry for not just leaving you out there to crawl up here on all fours, I guess! Would you've preferred that?"
"Yes- I mean, no- I mean… I don't know , okay?!" There was such a sudden, rare and desperate openness in Aramis' expression that Porthos was taken aback and momentarily stunned to silence. "I don't know what to feel! You tell me you've learned to live without me, and then you're angry when I tell you to shoot me to stop this goddamn war, then you drag me back here and you're acting as if- as if nothing happened! But you're still angry, and… and I don't know what to do to fix this! So just… talk to me, Porthos! Tell me how I can fix this!"
Aramis paused, panting as he struggled for breath, but he kept his eyes glued to Porthos', anxiously waiting for an answer, until his features suddenly twisted into a wince and he bent forward, starting to wheeze and cough. Porthos abandoned the (no doubt foolish and impulsive and quite unhelpful) retort hanging from the tip of his tongue, and dropped to his knees on the floor to help hold Aramis up as the latter struggled to catch his breath.
"Just… tell me…" Aramis gasped out between each raspy, painful wheeze, "what I can… do…"
"Hey, hey, just- jus' stop, okay?" Porthos snapped anxiously, one hand hovering over Aramis' back without touching him, fearing the pain he may cause if he did. "We can talk 'bout all that after the physician gets here an' makes sure you're not dyin'."
Aramis scrunched up his nose dismissively. "I'm not- dying , Porthos. 'S just- bruised lungs… is all…"
"You'd sound a lot more convincing if you weren't strugglin' to draw half a straight breath, y'know," Porthos pointed out, his anger mellowing out further. Aramis huffed out what might have been a chuckle or another wheeze, but didn't say anything, electing instead to focus on regaining his breath as much as he could. After the better part of the next two minutes, he'd almost succeeded and was ready to say something to Porthos again, but the latter just held up his hand.
"Take off your shirt. I'm no medic, but I can tell a dislocated shoulder when I see one." He gave Aramis a small, tentative smile. "You taught me how to set joints, so. I could help. Might give you some relief till the physician gets 'ere."
"...Oh." Aramis allowed himself a hesitant smile as well, reminding Porthos of a spooked kitten crouching under a carriage wheel, poking its whiskers out to test whether it could safely come out. "We could try, yes. But… I'll need your help getting that shirt off, I'm afraid."
"Oh, right," Porthos nodded and stood up from the floor, straightening his shoulders. "Here, le'me help…"
It took quire a bit of awkward maneuvering and a fair amount of hissed curses and groans of pain from the patient, but in the end Porthos managed to pass the opening of the stained white shirt over Aramis' head, then pull the sleeves out of each stiff, immobile arm with relative ease. Porthos' relief was short-lived, however, after he lay eyes on his fellow musketeer's shoulders.
"Well, shit," he muttered, eyes wide with horror. Aramis frowned at his tone.
"That bad, huh?"
"You've no idea," Porthos replied, taking stock of the bruised, swollen mess that were Aramis' shoulders, the area around the joints emanating heat with inflammation. The bruises were so dense and dark in some places, that it was as if blotches of ink had seeped under Aramis' skin. Porthos glanced away in alarm, struggling to keep what little food he'd had on the road within the confines of his stomach.
"Okay," he breathed, swallowing against the acrid taste of bile stinging the back of his throat. "Okay so, uh, that's quite bad, I think. What should I be lookin' for, again?"
Aramis let out a small, amused sigh which caused Porthos to glare at him.
"First, I need you to palpate the area and tell me if… well, if something is moving."
"Moving?!" Porthos swallowed. "Oh, man, I didn't remember that part… Where should I put my hand?"
"Right where the joints are. I suspect that's where you'll find the most bruising, too… which means it'll be exceedingly painful, but I need you to continue even if I'm screaming and begging you to stop, okay?" Aramis tilted his head a little to look at him, trying not to jostle himself too much in the process. "You'll do great, Porthos. We've been through worse together."
"...Yeah. We have." And Porthos had seen so much terror and blood on the battlefield, but without Aramis by his side to guide him. He felt a knot at the back of his throat, which forced him to push the thought away before he spiraled into such thoughts again. "Alright. Remember, you asked for it."
Taking a deep breath to steel himself (and noticing Aramis do the same), Porthos laid a large hand against his friend's shoulder. The skin was warm and dry underneath, and even without him pressing at all, he felt Aramis tense. Porthos had no idea if the afflicted area was so sensitive that even a light touch caused him pain, or if he was simply preparing himself for the oncoming ordeal, but he decided that in either case it would be better for the both of them if he got it over and done with, rather than stall. So he did as he'd been instructed, and put pressure with his hand, moving slowly towards where he knew the joint should be.
Aramis' reaction was immediate; his body went suddenly as rigid and taut as a bowstring, and a choked-off cry slipped out of his mouth before he could clamp his jaws shut. Porthos quickly lifted his hand, out of instinct more than anything else.
"Sorry," he bit out breathlessly, almost as if he could feel Aramis' pain himself, "but- I don't think anything moved more than it should, if that helps?"
Aramis hissed out a breath and answered with a clipped nod. "G-Good. No- No dislocation of the joints, then… that probably means no lasting damage."
" Probably ?!"
"You can- never be truly sure with these things, Porthos," Aramis was using what Porthos used to call his Lecturing Tone; the one he used when he tried to translate medicinal knowledge into plain, easily digestible information for him and Athos (and then d'Artagnan) to understand. "Now… use your fingers along my spine and neck, then my biceps. Tell me what they feel like."
"If you were gonna ask me to do all that, why did we even ask for a physician?" Porthos grumbled, but he prepared to do the task the other man had set him nonetheless; he suspected Aramis was afraid of what damage he might have suffered, and of how it would affect his abilities as a soldier, which was why he couldn't muster the patience to wait for a physician's opinion and wanted to assess the situation himself. Or, well, with Porthos as his eyes and hands, for that matter.
So, understanding his fellow musketeer's anxiety, Porthos prepared to do as he was told. However, at that moment he heard steps bounding rapidly up the stairs, and a few seconds later the cadet's sweaty, flustered face poked through the gap between the door and the wall.
"Sirs?" he began, breathless. "I-I'm so sorry. I tried to find a physician, I did, but news about the musketeers letting the Spanish prisoners of war out of the- well, um, out of the prison- have started going round… the two physicians I could find at their homes don't wanna come, sirs. Said they can't be seen associating with the- um, with the musketeer, until the matter's cleaned up. They don't like the Spanish much, and- sorry, I'm sorry, sir. Their words, not mine."
The last sentence was directed to Aramis exclusively; after he'd returned from Douai, many of the cadets and even some of the senior musketeers had been giving him the cold shoulder due to knowledge of him bearing Spanish blood which, after four years of war with Spain, wasn't exactly an asset. And while the physicians had only referred to the prisoners Athos had apparently dragged out of their cells to trade for Aramis' life, it was a welcome sentiment to see one of the cadets actually caring to not cause offense. Porthos watched as a small yet genuine smile lit up Aramis' haggard face.
"That's quite alright, Marcel," he said, making Porthos raise his eyebrows- how come Aramis remembered the kid's name but he didn't? That wasn't fair. "I can't really say I blame them. Thank you, though."
"But I didn't find a doctor, sir," the youth murmured, crestfallen. "What're you gonna do now?"
"Well, Porthos here will-"
"What are you gonna do about what, exactly?"
The boy, Porthos and Aramis all but jumped three fit into the air as Constance suddenly butted into their conversation, having climbed up the stairs and reached the door without any of them noticing (who was teaching this kind of stealth to this woman?! She already seemed to have a natural talent for it, anyway!).
"Knock next time, Connie," Aramis breathed, coming down from the fright they'd all received.
"Or what, you'll get a heart attack at your old age?" The woman snapped back readily, pressing her fists on each hip and glaring at the older men, before turning to the cadet. "Marcel, what's going on here? Why wasn't I informed the rescue squad was back?"
"I–I'm sorry, Madame d'Artagnan!" Marcel whimpered, shrinking into himself as if from a fearsome opponent. "The captain went to find a girl that was whipped in the square, a-and lieutenant d'Artagnan went to report to the palace. Sir Porthos sent me to find a doctor for sir Aramis because he's h-"
At that point, the boy seemed to notice the rapid gestures the two senior musketeers were making in order to advise him to silence, so he clamped his mouth shut with an audible 'pop' . Alas, by then it was too late; Constance shifted her menacing glare towards the two older men, cocking her head to the side.
"Let me guess: Aramis got his arse whipped again?" She said matter-of-factly, causing Porthos to choke on a laugh and even Marcel to smile hesitantly. Aramis frowned.
"How rude," he remarked. "It's not that bad, Connie, you can just-"
"Don't 'Connie' me, you," Constance interrupted, holding up a hand. "Two days at Grimaud's hands, getting the Queen and the rest of us in trouble, and then returning in God knows what kind of state is, in fact, that bad . So unless you want me to turn into Grimaud, you better sew that running mouth of yours up and let me see what's wrong with you, since apparently we've scared the city's physicians away from the garrison."
"Uh…" Porthos raised an eyebrow, mustering up enough courage to contradict the ancient Fury that Constance turned into whenever any of them did something particularly foolish. "But you're no doctor either, are you?"
"Well…" She looked away, shrugging, suddenly looking forlorn, "I did pick some stuff up from poor Lemay before he… you know."
She shook herself rapidly, likely to dislodge the image of the poor doctor's head rolling on the ground in front of her from her mind's eye. "Anyway, I'm no professional, but it's better than you lumbering fool trying to fix whatever it is the other fool got himself into."
Aramis let out a small resigned sigh, hanging his head. "Can't argue with that. And truth be told, I'd rather get this over with before I fall asleep right where I'm sitting. I'm positively exhausted."
He said it lightly, trying to hide the true extent of the situation, but Porthos knew him too well, and even four years hadn't changed his brother's penchant from hiding his pain; he could see that Aramis was suffering in every line of his body, in the way he held himself, even in the way he breathed. And while he was unrealistically adept at hiding it, he was nearing his limit. So, quickly, Porthos gave his own consent as well.
"Yeah, sounds like a plan. I'd rather not deal with this myself, anyway."
"Excellent," Constance replied. The haunted look that had taken over her blue eyes after mentioning Lemay disappeared in an instant, replaced with determination as she clapped her hands and turned to the cadet. "Marcel, fetch me water from the well, a towel and fresh bandages. Will I need a needle and thread?"
"No," Aramis answered, "no open wounds. But I've a salve for bruises in my saddlebags, it may come in handy."
"I'll bring your bag as well, sir," Marcel said with yet another salute, and quickly left to get the requested items. Constance walked into the room decisively, dragged off her leather gloves and threw them on the bed.
"Alright, then. Let's see what's wrong with- oh my God."
Porthos hummed in sympathy as he saw her take in the extent of Aramis' injuries and clap a hand over her mouth in shock. "Yeah, same here. Grimaud really did a number on 'im."
"That… That monster ," Constance hissed, concern and remorse warring with rage in her normally gentle features. "First Sylvie, and now our Aramis. Oh, if I could only get my hands on him…"
She went on hissing what she'd do to the man if she ever got the chance, all while setting to work and doing what Aramis had previously instructed Porthos to do. As carefully as she could she trailed her fingers along Aramis' spine, then back to his arms, after being informed Porthos had already tested for breaks and dislocations. The wounded musketeer squeezed his eyes shut and sweat sprang out across his hairline, his body shaking minutely as he bravely bore the pain of the examination without a single sound other than a few choked gasps and groans. Constance murmured softly as she worked, a sharp contrast to her earlier harshness as she tried to provide comfort.
Porthos knelt by Aramis' side again and placed a large hand atop the other musketeer's knee in silent comfort, too. And maybe it was just the older man's imagination, nothing more than wishful thinking, but he thought he felt Aramis' muscles relax ever so slightly under his touch.
While he sat there, Marcel came back with a bucket full of water in one hand and a folded towel and bandages under the same arm, and Aramis' medic's satchel hanging from the other. He looked decidedly green in the face after seeing how bad the musketeer's condition was, so Porthos sent him away with a gentle pat of praise on one shoulder and the order to take the rest of the day off. The lad had done enough running around for a day, after all, and Porthos owed him one for managing to forget his name. Worrying about Aramis did things to his brain, he supposed.
"Okay," Constance started after finishing with Aramis' shoulders and arms a while later, "your forearms are just stiff, but I think there's serious inflammation to the muscles and ligaments on your shoulders. There's light bruising to the spine, too, I'm assuming from the muscle strain. Can you clench your first? I want to see if there's nerve damage too."
Aramis obediently tried to do as asked, but the fingers on both his hands only twitched feebly, coming up halfway to forming a fist before relaxing again. After a couple more tries he let out a small, frustrated growl.
"I… I can't," he growled, shaking his head. "And my hands feel numb, but also like pins and needles. It… It's painful."
"I see…" Constance chewed on her lower lip, scrunching her eyebrows together, "I remember Lemay saying that swelling can restrict the blood flow in certain areas and thus affect the nerves there… let's hope it's just that, and that the numbness will go away with the swelling to your shoulders. If not… well, we'll cross that bridge if and when we get there."
Porthos hummed, nodding. "Sounds good. What do we do now?"
"Help me soak the bandages and wrap them around his shoulders," she replied, nodding to the basket. "They'll work like cold compresses and help soothe the affected muscle, and we can use the salve once the swelling is down, perhaps tomorrow. Some cinnamon and willow bark tea will also help reduce the inflammation and relieve the pain. Oh and- you're having trouble breathing, right, Aramis?"
Aramis made a face, realising he hadn't much succeeded in concealing his wheezing. "I… suppose, yeah. Just bruised lungs, that's all. It hurts, but it'll go away on its own, I'm sure."
She nodded. "Alright, you probably know better than me when it comes to this. But do try to sleep upright. And of course…"
She moved from where she was kneeling behind him on top of the mattress and came to stand in front of him, bending down until her nose was inches from his.
"Don't. You. Dare. Get up," she enunciated every word, lively blue eyes promising a slow and painful death if he did not comply, "for at least five days. Have I made myself clear, hermano ?"
Aramis made a face. "You know I hate it when you use the words I taught you against me… but, yes, Constance, I solemnly hereby swear an oath to not move from this bed until you give me your express permission."
"Well if you're well enough to be that cheeky, you're probably not dying anytime soon," Constance decided, straightening up. "I'll go get you that tea. Porthos, will you handle the bandages?"
"Yes ma'am," the brawler replied with a small, ready grin; watching Constance grow into her role of overlord of the garrison, sometimes even outdoing Athos in the manner with which she delivered orders like a general to her troops in the eve of battle, never failed to amuse him. He was proud of her, their little Connie- the girl who'd gone through so much strife and heartbreak but had now found her place in their ranks. A musketeer in her own right.
Constance rolled her eyes fondly at the two men, huffing. "What will I do with you boys…"
Without waiting for an answer, she rushed out of the door and soon, they heard her casually bounding down the stairs. Porthos let his smile drop a little as he set himself to the task of soaking the bandages in the bucket Constance had left behind, squeezing out the excess water until only cool dampness remained, and wrapping them securely around Aramis' battered torso.
Aramis shivered a little when the cold cloth first touched his skin.
"That… decidedly doesn't feel very nice," he murmured quietly, and Porthos gave him a sympathetic look; he was aware of how Aramis despised the cold and did not faire well with it, even in cases where it was an isolated sensation, such as this.
"Hey now, I'll light a fire as soon as I'm done here, 'kay?" He reassured his companion as he finished wrapping the first bandage and moved to the second strip, making sure the other man's shoulders were sufficiently covered. "An' then you can bury yourself under your blankets like I know you like to do when in a mood."
A small smile tugged at the corners of Aramis' lips. "You remember that, huh?"
"Course I do," Porthos replied, a little sharper than he'd intended as attention was once again drawn to the pressing matter of their relationship. "I…"
I missed you. I thought about you every day. I kept looking over my shoulder during battle, expecting you to be there to cover me. I kept searching for you back in camp to make sure you were unharmed after each skirmish.
I lied; I have not truly learned to live without you.
"I am glad you're back," was what he managed to blurt out in the end; not even a fraction of what he truly wanted to say, but as good a place to start as any. "I know I've been angry with you, an' you deserve it, but… I'm glad to have you back. Brother."
It was the first time he'd referred to Aramis as such, ever since the latter had returned to them. And somehow, it felt so right on his tongue, a missing piece clicking into place, a key into a rusty lock. Aramis' head snapped up fast enough that it had to have caused him considerable pain, but the younger man's eyes were wide and open and vulnerable as he stared at Porthos, like a child being forgiven for an honest mistake. There were unshed tears glimmering precariously in the corners of those dark, honest eyes, and Porthos let out a small huff before placing his hand on top of Aramis' head, gently ruffling his hair.
"Don't' look at me like that. We still have lots to talk about, you an' I, before we're back to normal. But you'll need to rest first. Can't rail at you when you're lookin' like a kicked puppy."
Quickly, Aramis nodded and let his head drop again; holding it up seemed to be a struggle.
"Alright," he whispered, almost inaudible, then sniffled a little. "I… can work with that, I think."
"Good. Now, let's see…" With the first step towards the mending of their relationship taken, Porthos felt confident enough to resume his work. Soon, he was done with the bandages, having wrapped them tightly enough to provide support but not to cause the other musketeer additional pain. He finished by taking the towel Constance had requested earlier, and folding it over and around Aramis' shoulders and tying it off at the front, below his neck, so that it would absorb any additional humidity from the bandages and prevent him from catching a chill or letting the moisture seep into his shirt and sheets. Finally, he grabbed a clean linen shirt that Aramis had at some point discarded on the back of a chair, and helped the other man in it.
"There, you're set. Wanna get you lyin' down now? You look like you're one strong breeze from fallin' flat on your face."
"I feel it, too," Aramis breathed out, eyes squeezed tight as he leaned forward, clearly suffering. "But the bandages are already helping. Thank you."
Porthos snorted, concern written plainly on his face. "Thank me when the pain stops."
"I suspect that will take a while…"
They didn't talk further while Porthos helped Aramis up on unsteady feet to pull back the covers from his bed, then propped up his pillow against the headboard so the marksman could recline backwards without fully lying down and aggravating his lungs.
"Everything alright?" Porthos asked when Aramis was finally sitting cosily on the bed, with the blankets pulled up to his chest and secured under his arms with Porthos' help, seeing as the injured man could barely lift a finger to do any of it. Aramis nodded, although his features were drawn with pain and his face abnormally pale.
"As much as it can be. Please, don't worry about me. You've done enough." He gave Porthos a small, trembling smile. "You look exhausted, too. You should go change, get something to eat and have a rest."
"Mhm…" Porthos hummed doubtfully, although he couldn't deny he stank of horse and sweat, his head was still swimming a little with the blow he'd received while trying to free Aramis from Grimaud, and his stomach had been loudly complaining for the better part of the past hour. "You should eat as well… bet Grimaud didn't feed you."
Aramis shook his head. "No, but I truly don't feel hungry. I think… I'd just like to sleep some of the pain off, if possible. Constance's tea should help with that."
"Yeah… yeah, okay." Porthos shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly sheepish- which, considering his size, was quite a funny look on him. "I'll just… go and change, grab a bite and be right back, alright? I can sleep on the floor to watch over you. Wouldn't want you choking in your sleep."
"Porthos, there really is no need-"
"There is." Porthos glared darkly at his friend, and felt a small rush of satisfaction when Aramis looked away meekly, a clear sign that he knew he'd already lost the argument. "Look, don' argue with me on this. Just… let it go, okay?"
"...Yeah," Aramis answered softly after a few long, tense minutes of awkward silence, his head bowed so Porthos couldn't see his eyes. "Yeah, okay."
"Good. I'll be right back."
Having secured the marksman's cooperation on it, he didn't wait to see what Aramis' response would be to the statement. He simply strode to the door, picked up the Bible-repurposed-as-a-doorstop, set it on the small table by the wall that Aramis used as a desk, and walked out without looking back. Still, when he closed the door with a soft 'click' behind him, he stood in the cold, empty hallway for a few moments, taking a long, deep breath and staring at the dusty tips of his boots.
They were going to have to talk about this, he and Aramis, he thought darkly. And he didn't know how that conversation would end, or even how it would go in the first place. Sure, Aramis seemed inclined to forgive Porthos' behaviour, but Porthos was still somewhat angry with Aramis, and the guilt he felt for having contributed to alienating his brother from the rest of their group was only making the sentiment more painful and bitter. He was afraid he'd do or say the wrong thing, and drive Aramis away forever.
And while he'd spent the past four years without his soul's other half, Porthos wasn't sure he could bear it if he accidentally said something to make Aramis walk away from them again.
Perhaps for good, this time.