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“Should you be out of bed?”

Aramis glanced away from d’Artagnan’s prone body to the doorway of the room, where Athos had fixed him with an scolding look.

“I’m fine,” Aramis said, even as his body ached and every breath felt like knives in his side. His hand closed over d’Artagnan’s limp one. Athos tipped his head to the side.

“Besides a few broken ribs, severe malnutrition, dehydration—”

“I needed to see him,” Aramis cut him off, and Athos’s expression softened. Aramis took a steadying breath. “I… I couldn’t rest without knowing…”

“The doctor thinks his fever will be down soon,” Athos supplied. “His wounds have been treated as best they can be. They’ll scar, of course, but… he’ll live.”

“He’ll live,” Aramis repeated, his eyes fixed on d’Artagnan’s bruised face. The overwhelming relief of it all made him dizzy. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. A rustling indicated Athos moving further into the room.

“I think you should return to bed,” his friend said uncertainly. Aramis shook his head and opened his eyes again.

“Not yet. I will, I promise, just… a few more minutes, please.”

The room was silent, save for the labored breathing from d’Artagnan.

“Alright,” Athos agreed softly after a minute. He pulled another chair close to the bed and settled down into it.

Aramis let out a breath and, despite the protesting from his ribs, leaned forward and brushed a lock of hair out of d’Artagnan’s face. Athos’s eyes burned into him as Aramis leaned back against the chair again. Aramis threw his friend a quick glance.

“You wish to question me. I can sense it.”

Athos looked away. The wooden chair creaked as he shifted.

“I do not wish to pry before you’re ready,” he said graciously.

“I’m ready,” Aramis said, harsher than intended. Athos hesitated for a moment before beginning. It didn’t matter; it still felt like an interrogation to Aramis, one that would surely lead to his doom.

“When were you captured?” Athos asked. “We did not begin to look until you did not return on the appointed day, but…”

“Two days into the journey,” Aramis replied woodenly. His gaze remained fixed in d’Artagnan, but his eyes became distant as he recounted the experience. “They caught us by surprise when we made camp for the night. We killed a number of them, but… they overpowered us. We came to our senses in the dungeon you found us in.”

Athos hummed. “We did not find you until nearly ten days after you had departed,” he informed Aramis quietly. Aramis squeezed his eyes shut.

“Ten days,” he murmured. That meant eight days of torture. Eight days of watching d’Artagnan decline. More than a week of suffering—in the moment Aramis hadn’t been able to gauge the passage of time well, but to put a number to the time made it more real, somehow. Eight days—and it would have taken only one more for Aramis to break.

“Perhaps I should ask you more later,” Athos suggested kindly, but Aramis shook his head with vigor.

“You must ask me now, or else I might never have the nerve to tell you,” he begged. The unease that radiated off of Athos was palpable.

“What did they… do?”

“They wanted information,” Aramis said. The sight of d’Artagnan’s battered body was worse in the sunlight than it had been in the cell, and it caused Aramis to falter when he opened his eyes.

“They kept demanding ‘the secrets of France,’” he continued after a moment. “They took me, first. Beat me in front of him. He did well. He was livid, but he did well. He refused to even tell them his name.”

D’Artagnan twitched in his sleep, and Aramis squeezed his hand. His pride for d’Artagnan quickly morphed back into shame.

“And then?” Athos prompted in a careful voice. Aramis swallowed thickly.

“They took him, the next day. They didn’t beat him. I suppose they thought… I don’t know. I’ve no idea what they thought. They whipped him. I was screaming curses at them as soon as I heard him. I told them our names, and they stopped, threw us back into our cells. D’Artagnan was angry with me for telling anything, but… his screams, Athos, I… I couldn’t…”

“There’s no telling how long they would have gone if you hadn’t said anything,” Athos said, but it didn’t offer much comfort to Aramis.

“I suppose. They did the same thing the next day, and I told them we were musketeers. They didn’t stop after that. They wanted secrets. They told me they’d let him go if I gave them something worthwhile. I lied and told them the king was moving his treasure along a certain road.”

“Good misdirection,” Athos said quietly. He hesitated again. “We found you with a loaded pistol. How did you acquire it?”

“They gave it to us,” Aramis said slowly, his eyes glued to the steady rising and falling of d’Artagnan’s chest. “They threw it in there and told us they wouldn’t be back. Told us it was an act of mercy, that at least one of us would be guaranteed a swift death.”

“Cheery,” d’Artagnan had commented sarcastically, but he eyed the weapon with unease. Aramis felt an equal amount of unease from the way d’Artagnan’s eyes were already becoming too glassy, but had tucked the pistol into his holster and forced a smile.

“Maybe we’ll get a nice fat rat, hm?” he had said.

“They left. It was later that day that d’Artagnan started to show signs of infection and fever. There were a few times…” Aramis sucked in a breath, suddenly feeling like his lungs were closing up. “He got bad. I don’t know if it was worse when he would babble incoherently, or when he wouldn’t make any noise at all. I thought several times that he might have died.”

“The doctor said he should pull through just fine,” Athos said, awkwardly offering reassurance. Aramis nodded few times and bit down hard on his lower lip against the lump in his throat.

“Give me the gun,” d’Artagnan had pleaded, his eyes glazed with fever. It didn’t matter that Aramis knew d’Artagnan wasn’t in his right mind; it didn’t make it any less horrifying. “Please. I can’t stand it anymore, please.”

D’Artagnan had made a weak attempt to wrestle him for the weapon, eventually. It had ended with the pistol across the cell and Aramis holding d’Artagnan tightly as the younger man thrashed in his arms, begging and sobbing for relief.

A tremor ran through Aramis’s body, and he pressed d’Artagnan’s hand to his lips, desperate to assure himself of his presence.

“That’s not all, is it?” Athos asked carefully. Aramis shook his head, not trusting himself to speak without screaming just yet.

“He was delirious,” he got out after a while, drinking in the sight of d’Artagnan breathing. “Fever, infection, pain, hunger, dehydration—pick your poison, they were all working against him. He…”

Aramis’s voice gave out and he clenched his jaw until the tightness in the back of his throat faded; it did nothing to hide the rawness in his voice as he whispered: “He kept begging me for the gun.”

Athos seemed fully unable to conjure a response. Eventually, he let out a long breath. Aramis waited almost at the edge of his seat.

“Well… he’s here, now,” Athos said grimly after a long while. “You both are. You kept him safe long enough for us to rescue both of you. You… should get some rest.”He began to rise from his chair, and something guilty and hysterical bubbled up in Aramis’s chest.

“I would have done it.” The admission burst out of his mouth before he could stop it. Athos paused.

“What?”

“If you hadn’t shown up when you did, I—I would have—” Aramis broke off, his breathing ragged. Athos could have been mistaken for a statue for how still he was standing.

“I couldn’t stand it,” Aramis continued, desperate to find some level of understanding in Athos’s hard eyes. “He was in such agony, and he deserved better than—than slowly rotting away, delirious, and—” an invisible vise squeezed Aramis’s chest. His head felt light, too light. Athos’s expression was quickly turning to one of concern.

“I kept—I kept telling him that you’d be along any day, but I didn’t believe it.” To say it out loud almost made Aramis physically ill; he had to be dying, from the way the room was narrowing. He struggled to get out his final confession past shallow breaths.

“I didn’t believe it. I—I should have, I know, but I was out of my mind with hunger, and I—I—”

“Aramis—”

“I’m sorry,” Aramis gasped out, but it was now directed at d’Artagnan’s limp body. He clutched at the unresponsive hand, his anguish giving him new strength. “Forgive me, please, I—”

The bottom of the world fell away, and Aramis with it.

——

Consciousness filtered back to Aramis slowly, but once he could open his eyes, he quickly placed his surroundings as being in his room. A wooden chair creaked next to him, and Porthos leaned into his eyeline.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. Aramis considered the question.

“Hungry,” he said, instead of listing the various forms of pain he was in. Porthos would understand, anyways.

“I’ll get you some soup.”

Aramis’s nodded and let his eyes slip shut. They were open again a second later, his heart in his throat. His arm shot out to grab Porthos by the arm.

“How is d’Artagnan?” he asked, nearly frantic. Porthos clasped Aramis’s hand in his own.

“He’ll pull through,” he assured. That wasn’t what Aramis wanted to hear, and it must have shown on his face, because Porthos added: “The doctor says he’s improving.”

“Has he been eating?”

Porthos hesitated, and his face involuntarily grimaced. “The doctor’s managed to get almost a full bowl of soup in him a day.”

“I see.”

It wasn’t good news, but Aramis tried to console himself in the fact that his younger friend was still getting food, even if it was forced down his throat while he was only semi-conscious.

Aramis began to rise from the bed, only for Porthos to push him back down immediately.

“Uh-uh. You’re not allowed out of bed again. Doctor’s orders.”

Irrational panic sprung in Aramis’s chest.

“I need to see him,” he insisted, making another attempt to rise.

“You need to rest,” Porthos returned, easily keeping Aramis down. “You can see him later.”

Images of d’Artagnan’s chest falling still, of his skin turning grey, of his hands turning cold filled Aramis’s mind, and he gripped Porthos’s arm.

“If he died, would you tell me?”

“What?”

“If he died, would you tell me now, or wait until I was recovered?” Aramis repeated, a frenzy growing inside of him.

“I—wait, I suppose, but—HEY!”

Aramis nearly fell face first onto the floor in his attempt to escape the bed. Porthos caught him at the last second and hauled him up again.

“Look, I’ll swear on anything you like that he’s not dead,” Porthos said sternly. “But you’re not making a very good case for yourself for getting out of bed.”

“I need to see him,” Aramis repeated. His hands shook as he gripped Porthos, a trembling that seemed to stem from his very soul. “ Please . I need to see him.”

Porthos hesitated and glanced over his shoulder.

“Alright, but it’s not my fault if you pass out again,” he grumbled. “And after you see him, you eat something. Deal?”

“Deal,” Aramis eagerly agreed, despite the idea of food now turning his stomach.

It seemed a long way to d’Artagnan’s room, and Aramis wondered how he had managed by himself only a day or two before; now, he could barely take a step without leaning heavily on Porthos.

Relief flooded Aramis as he finally laid eyes on his young friend. D’Artagnan looked much the same—ashen, sickly, thin—but his chest was moving up and down in a steady rhythm. All the same, the tension didn’t leave Aramis’s frame until he was settled in the chair by the bed and d’Artagnan’s hand was safely in his. Then, he let out a long breath.

“Athos was watching him,” Porthos mused, mostly to himself. “Wonder where he’s gone off to.”

Shame washed over Aramis as he remembered the conversation he’d had with Athos.

“Does he hate me?” he asked, studying the fading bruises on d’Artagnan’s face.

“Athos? I shouldn’t think so.” Porthos sounded rather taken aback. “Why?”

“Did he tell you what I… what I would have done?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you hate me?”

“Hate you—why on earth would I—”

“Why would we?” The voice that spoke this time came from the doorway.

Aramis couldn’t bring himself to look at anyone besides d’Artagnan, if only to assure himself of their young friend’s survival; his survival despite Aramis, not because of Aramis.

“I was going to kill him.” Aramis’s voice sounded hollow and unknown to his own ears. His hand fumbled with d’Artagnan’s arm until he could press two fingers against the pulse. Weak, but steady. Weak, but there.

“You had the means to end the suffering of a friend in a situation where there was no guarantee of rescue,” Athos said softly as he entered the room. “I won’t pretend I wouldn’t have considered the same in your place—but all that matters now is that the two of you are safe.”

“Do you think d’Artagnan will hate me when he finds out?” Aramis asked. The tightness returned to his throat, and he swallowed thickly. A hand squeezed his shoulder.

“That is something we won’t know until he wakes,” Athos said, his voice heavy. “But I should imagine that he will understand. If not at first, then… in time, he will understand.”

“You should hate me,” Aramis accused past the tears that threatened to spill. “Both of you.”

“Well, isn’t it just too bad that we never listen when you order us around,” Porthos said. He clapped a hand on Aramis’s other shoulder. “Come on. There’s soup waiting for you.”

——

It was a few days later that D’Artagnan’s eyes were finally clear when they blinked open, and Aramis’s mind tumbled through a thousand prayers of thanks. It was still another day before he was fully lucid, but Aramis was by his side when d’Artagnan’s mouth filled with the questions that his eyes held.

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan placed. Beneath his furrowed brow, his eyes bounced around the room. “Did we—”

“We’re safe,” Aramis assured. One hand gripped d’Artagnan’s hand, the other his wrist—far too thin, but there would be time to fix that, now. “Athos and Porthos rescued us.”

D’Artagnan’s turned his gaze to study Aramis, and, despite the exhaustion in his face, his eyes were as sharp as they should be; a far cry from the delirious, bright look they’d held for days and days.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and Aramis almost laughed, but given that it would have been rather hysterical, he refrained.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “They didn’t do much to me.”

D’Artagnan’s expression turned dubious. “I heard your ribs break.”

“Well, they’ve been broken before,” Aramis tried. D’Artagnan grinned, and Aramis could have cried at the sight.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m almost certain I’ve heard you tear Athos apart for using the same excuse,” d’Artagnan accused. His grin quickly morphed into a grimace, and his eyes squeezed shut as a small grunt escaped him.

“How do you feel?” Aramis asked, trying not to relive the helplessness he felt in the cell.

“Like I’ve been chewed up and spat out by something large,” d’Artagnan got out through clenched teeth. His eyes opened again and he offered Aramis a smile. “I’ll be fine in a few days.”

Emotion overwhelmed Aramis, and he squeezed d’Artagnan’d hand.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s not your fault,” d’Artagnan said, sounding a bit confused. Aramis fought the urge to argue.

“You should try to rest,” he said instead. D’Artagnan let out a low hum and nodded slightly, his eyes looking heavy.

“You were right, you know,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet. “They came for us.”

“Yes,” Aramis agreed, even as guilt pulled at his stomach. “They did.”

“I knew they would,” d’Artagnan said. “I just… didn’t know if they would find us in time.”

“I didn’t either,” Aramis admitted. “I thought—” he stopped himself. There was no need to repeat his earlier breakdown in front of d’Artagnan, not when he had just woken up. There would be time later.

“Well, we’re safe, now,” Aramis assured.

D’Artagnan nodded again. His eyes were already almost shut. They shot open again a second later and searched Aramis’s face.

“You’re alright?” d’Artagnan asked.

A soft laugh escaped Aramis.

“Yes, I’m alright.”

“Good.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes drifted shut again, but again, they opened. His mouth opened and closed once, twice, words seeming to fail him.

“Is this a dream?” d’Artagnan got out after a moment, fear permeating his words. Aramis could have sworn his heart broke, and he swallowed hard.

“No,” he said firmly. “No, I promise, it’s not a dream. This will all still be here when you wake up again.“

D’Artagnan nodded almost imperceptibly, his eyes filling with shallow water as they clung to Aramis’s gaze like a lifeline. Aramis leaned forward and ran a hand over d’Artagnan’s hair.

“Rest, d’Artagnan,” he said gently. “You’re safe, now.”

As Aramis ran a hand over d’Artagnan’s head a second time, his friend’s eyes fluttered shut; this time, d’Artagnan slipped into a peaceful slumber.