Chapter Text
d'Artagnan’s been in Paris for four days when it hits him.
He’d slept for most of a day that first time; every time he’d started to wake he’d been soothed back to sleep by the others’ voices. When he’d finally woken he’d only eaten and gone straight back to sleep.
The second time he wakes he thinks he’s alone, until Porthos stirs. He’s been standing by the window, looking out. “Afternoon.”
“Is it?” d'Artagnan pushes himself to sit, frowning at the odd light headed sensation.
Porthos offers him a cup. “How d’you feel?”
Numb is the first thing that comes to d'Artagnan’s mind, but he doesn’t think that’s what Porthos wants to hear, and he can’t think of anything else. Porthos watches him struggle for a moment before prompting “Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” d'Artagnan says in relief, though he isn’t.
“They can bring in a bath, too, if you like.”
d'Artagnan hesitates over that one, but he’ll have to get used to it sometime. “Thank you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Right. Last decision.” Porthos pushes away from the window. “Constance is gonna hear you’re awake, and she’s going to come looking to see you. She’s already been here twice.”
“Twice? How long have I been here?”
Porthos shakes his head absently. “She’ll go if I send her away, but she won’t stop coming.”
“Let her in,” d'Artagnan says with a sigh. He doesn’t want to face her, not while he’s still this unsteady, but putting it off won’t help either, and he doesn’t want to make her worry.
“Good lad,” Porthos says approvingly. “Right. Food first, cause otherwise you might drown.”
He goes to the door, talking quietly to someone just outside. d'Artagnan stands carefully and crosses to the window, looking out at the gardens below. It’s a good view, he notes distantly.
“All right?” Porthos asks from behind him.
“Mmm.” He doesn’t turn.
Constance arrives on the heels of the kitchen boy. Porthos talks quietly to her for a moment before busying himself with the tray.
“d'Artagnan,” she says quietly.
“Constance,” he answers.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine,” he assures her. “I’ve just woken up, that’s all.”
“You’ve slept so long.” She brushes his hair back, and if she notices the way he watches her hand while it’s near him, she doesn’t comment. “I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you.” It’s mostly true. Once Louis was free, d'Artagnan had done his best never to think of his life in France, but he’d remembered Constance with a pang at odd moments.
“Her majesty sent me to make sure you have everything you need. She asks that, when you feel better, you might visit with her.”
“With the Queen?”
“Yes. I don’t know what this mission is, but you’re the royal favourite now.”
d'Artagnan stares at her, suddenly very cold. “That’s not…”
Porthos looks up sharply. “d'Artagnan?”
“That wasn’t why.”
“Come and eat.”
An order, and he can’t focus enough to fight it. d'Artagnan shuffles past Constance. The room doesn’t have a table; Porthos has the tray on the bed, and after a moment’s thought he takes what he wants and settles on the floor in a corner with his back to the wall.
“He’s just tired,” Porthos says quietly. “And a bit stressed. It’s not been easy on him, the last year and a half.”
Constance’s answer is too soft for d'Artagnan to hear, but a moment later she kneels in front of him. “You’ll get your dress dirty,” he tells her.
“I have other dresses.”
“I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”
“You didn’t shout.”
“Oh.” He’d felt like he was shouting.
“I’m sorry I upset you.”
d'Artagnan forces a smile, meeting her eyes briefly. “It’s me. It’s the mission, I’m still on guard. I can’t stop. It’ll get better.”
Constance smiles, but her eyes are sad. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Yes.”
Porthos escorts her out, coming back to crouch in front of d'Artagnan. “You all right?”
d'Artagnan eyes him, wondering just how hard he’d have to kick that knee to knock Porthos over if he had to. Distantly, he knows he shouldn’t be thinking like this, but that part of him is overshadowed by the part that knows he’s backed into a corner, unarmed and outweighed.
“d'Artagnan.”
“Yes. No,” he corrects himself. “Does everyone think that? That I – the mission – for favours?”
“Constance doesn’t think that.” d'Artagnan is silent; Porthos continues, “The people who matter don’t think that. We know the truth. The king and queen know the truth. And Treville made damn sure the Musketeers knew it was difficult, dangerous, and you were doing it for king and country.”
I wasn’t, d'Artagnan wants to say and doesn’t. I just couldn’t persuade myself to give up.
Someone knocks at the door. Porthos scowls, goes to answer, and comes back. “It’s the bath.” d'Artagnan nods, but he doesn’t say anything. Porthos lets them in.
d'Artagnan stays where he is and eats while they’re setting up. They must know he’s there – royal servants are too well trained not to – but none of them look at him, and he wonders idly what the palace grapevine is saying about him.
Porthos closes the door on the last servant, a maid who’d been very eager to stay and help, and looks at d'Artagnan. “You ready?”
“Porthos –“ d'Artagnan climbs to his feet and then stops, not sure what to do next. “Can you – be somewhere else, for a little while?”
Porthos studies him. “You know it doesn’t mean anything to me, what scars you’ve got.”
“I know.”
“I can go, but not for long. Athos’ll skin me alive if he finds out.”
d'Artagnan nods. Porthos sighs, picking up his cloak and inspecting it. “Oh dear, a rip. Better go take care of that. It’ll probably take me about ten minutes.”
He leaves without saying anything else. d'Artagnan stands for a moment before he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing.
He had two baths in Spain. He remembers both clearly. He’s been told there was another one, after one of his floggings, but he doesn’t remember that one at all. The two he remembers, though – he has to test the water carefully before he can get in. He doesn’t linger, either, and by the time Porthos comes back he’s dressed and sitting carefully on the side of the bed.
“Feel better?” Porthos asks. d'Artagnan makes a noise that might be agreement, and Porthos continues “What would you like to do now?” d'Artagnan shakes his head helplessly. Porthos studies him for a moment before sighing. “If you can’t decide, can you tell me what you think if I suggest something?”
“Yes.”
“Good man.”
They end up walking in the gardens below the window. Porthos has obviously spoken to someone, because they pass a Musketeer d'Artagnan doesn’t recognise as they go in and see no one at all the rest of the time they’re there. They wander aimlessly for a while before d'Artagnan asks to sit, and once they’re sitting it’s not long before he’s dozing.
He wakes without moving when Aramis arrives, feigning sleep as he sits beside Porthos. “How is he doing?”
Porthos’ clothes rustle as he shrugs. “He’s jumpy, he’s tired, he’s confused, he can’t make any decisions, and I think we should avoid backing him in anywhere he can’t get out of for a while.”
“That good?” Aramis’ hand rests on d'Artagnan’s arm; he keeps from tensing by sheer force of will. “Has he seen –“
“Constance, yeah. Didn’t go so good. We might want to hold off on that for a while.”
“But not –“
“No. Figured it wasn’t time for that.”
They’re silent for a moment, until Porthos says softly, “He asked me to leave while he bathed.”
“And did you?”
“Figured anything he was actually asking for, I shouldn’t refuse. Told him I didn’t care about whatever scars he’s got and left him to do it.”
“Good,” Aramis murmurs. “You’re right, if he’s asking for things that has to be good. Certain things.”
“Don’t worry, there isn’t anything dangerous in the room. I checked.”
d'Artagnan frowns, just slightly. That hadn’t occurred to him.
“d'Artagnan?” Aramis asks softly.
“Mmm.” d'Artagnan sits, dislodging Aramis’ hand as he does.
“How long have you been awake?”
“I wasn’t asleep.” He runs both hands through his hair, avoiding Aramis’ look. “How long did I sleep?”
“What?”
“Constance said a long time. Porthos didn’t answer. How long?”
Aramis glances quickly at Porthos. “Two days, give or take.”
“Two days,” d'Artagnan repeats.
“You were tired. It’s not important.”
“I wasn’t keeping it from you,” Porthos adds. “Just was talking about Constance and forgot to go back to it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” d'Artagnan mutters. It’s a lie, and he’s fairly sure they can tell it is, but they don’t press.
“Well,” Aramis says, far too brightly, “I could eat something. Are you hungry? We should be going inside, anyway, Athos will be here soon.”
“We’re not going back to the garrison?”
Another quick glance. “Not today.”
“I ate a little while ago. I’m not hungry.”
“That was a few hours ago,” Porthos says carefully.
d'Artagnan shakes his head. Aramis studies him for a moment before glancing at Porthos; Porthos hauls himself to his feet, wandering a few feet away to examine a bush.
“d'Artagnan, what it is you’re having trouble with?” Aramis asks quietly. d'Artagnan glances at him, and Aramis smiles faintly. “Yes, a ridiculous question, I admit.”
“I’m just – I’m not used to it yet.”
“Not used to…”
“Deciding.”
Aramis pulls his hat off, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You trained his men.”
“Because I was told to.”
“You told them to let Porthos go.”
“And if any of them had been thinking, they’d have refused. I couldn’t really do things like that.” d'Artagnan lies back down, arm over his eyes.
“Why do you keep doing that?” Aramis asks gently.
“Doing what?”
Aramis taps his arm. “This. Hiding.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“What is it, then? It’s not something you used to do.”
“I’m not hiding,” d'Artagnan says again. “I’m breathing.”
“d'Artagnan,” Aramis murmurs.
“I’m not…” He struggles upright again, gripping Aramis’ arm for balance. “I’m not right,” he manages finally. “But I’m going to be, Aramis. I am.”
“I know you will,” Aramis agrees. “Tell me what you need.”
“Order,” d'Artagnan mutters.
Aramis winces. “Apologies.”
“No, don’t – “ d'Artagnan leans forward, hunching over his own knees. “Stop – being so careful. It doesn’t help; it just reminds me, all the time. Like you’re telling me I’m broken.”
“Not broken,” Aramis says firmly.
“Yes. I heard Athos say that.”
Aramis laughs softly. “You were paying a lot more attention than I thought.”
“Have to,” d'Artagnan says absently. “To know what’s coming.”
There is silence for a long, long time. Eventually Aramis shifts. “We’re not going to hurt you.”
“I know,” d'Artagnan says.
And he does; he really does. That doesn’t mean he can stop guarding himself, though.
“Come back inside?”
It’s a question, not an order. d'Artagnan sighs, but nods. “Yes.”
The next day, his fourth day back in Paris, d'Artagnan has word sent to the queen that he would be happy to see her. She returns a request – by an anonymous maid, not by Constance – for him to meet her in the gardens after lunch time.
Athos is his keeper today, and they pass the morning in stilted conversation and endless rounds of cards. Aramis and Porthos have clearly spoken with Athos, because the couple of decisions he asks for d'Artagnan’s input on are pointless and mean nothing; should they open the windows or not, does he want to play another hand or stop for a while. He doesn’t tell Athos that decisions like that are not a problem.
After lunch, Athos escorts him down to the gardens where the Queen is walking with her ladies. She smiles when she sees them, waving him forward. Her ladies automatically drop back; all but Constance, and a younger lady holding the hand of a tiny boy.
d'Artagnan bows to the Queen and then turns to bow to the boy. “Your Highness,” he says solemnly. The Dauphin regards him for a moment, chewing on his fist. “He’s very handsome, your majesty,” he adds to the Queen.
Anne smiles. “Constance, why don’t you two take him into the shade, there? I worry he’ll burn. d'Artagnan and I are going to walk a little, just along here.”
Constance nods, glancing at d'Artagnan as she leads the maid and the child away. d'Artagnan watches them for a moment before looking back at the Queen. “You wanted to speak with me, your majesty.”
Anne takes his arm and they begin ambling through the grounds, Athos a handful of steps behind them. “Not about anything in particular, d'Artagnan. Only to make sure you have everything you need.”
“Your servants have been very diligent, your majesty.”
“Is this better or worse?” she asks in Spanish.
“It’s all the same, your majesty.” None of the women he’d known in Spain had had any power over him, after all. “I’m happy to speak Spanish if you like. I don’t suppose you hear it much.”
“No,” she says softly. “Not much.”
“The Dauphin will learn, surely?”
“He will learn. But it will not be his mother tongue.”
“I’ve made no decision,” d'Artagnan says quietly. He’s starting to feel oddly warm and uncomfortable.
“I would not accept one so soon, Charles – may I call you Charles?” He makes a noise of assent, and she continues, “I said you should take time, and I meant it. The palace is your home for so long as you like. Have you seen Rochefort?”
“I’ve seen no one but Constance and the others.”
“It’s early yet.” She looks down at his arm; he realises too late that, holding her arm like this, his wrist is visible. “Are you in pain, Charles?”
“No pain,” he says as evenly as he can.
“They are healing?”
“They are healed, your majesty.”
Anne flinches very slightly at that. “I am sorry.”
“There’s no pain,” he says again.
“There are many kinds of pain, Charles.”
d'Artagnan’s breath catches in his throat; he doesn’t realise he’s stopped walking until Anne says “Charles...” and then, rather more sharply, “Athos!”
Athos speaks to him, but d’Artagnan can’t hear the words over the ringing in his ears. After a moment there’s hands on his arm, dragging him across the lawn. d'Artagnan follows blindly, concentrating on trying to breathe. His vision is tunnelling, going black.
Someone is talking, steady and calm. d'Artagnan clings to the sound, though he can’t make out any words, trying desperately to get some air. There’s a hand on his back and another on his chest, trying to force him into a rhythm; d'Artagnan follows, as best he can, and the awful blockage in his throat eases just a little.
“…done, d'Artagnan, that’s good, keep breathing,” Athos is saying when he starts to hear him again. “Just breathe, follow my hands, good.”
d'Artagnan reaches up to grip his wrist tightly, grounding himself, trying to calm down. They’re on the ground, he realises distantly, huddled together awkwardly; it has to be uncomfortable, but he can’t figure out how to move yet. He concentrates on breathing instead.
“Good,” Athos says softly. “That’s good, d'Artagnan, come back. Breathe.”
Footsteps pound towards them; d'Artagnan flinches violently, curling against Athos for lack of anywhere else to go. “Easy,” Athos says sharply, and whoever’s coming at them slows and stops. “It’s Aramis,” he adds more gently. “Just Aramis. The queen sent for him. You’re fine.”
“What happened?” Aramis asks quietly, one hand on d'Artagnan’s shoulder. Athos doesn’t answer out loud, but Aramis says “Ah” as though something suddenly makes sense.
d'Artagnan tightens his grip on Athos’ wrist. “…ath…” He runs out of breath, closing his eyes in frustration.
“You’re fine, lad,” Athos says quietly. “Just breathe. It’s fine.”
“I’m going to get you something to drink,” Aramis tells him. “Keep breathing. You’ll be fine.”
Athos’ hands are still warm on his back and chest. d'Artagnan concentrates on them, on breathing in the rhythm Athos has set, trying not to let the panic flare again. Athos is mostly silent, now, only speaking to remind him to breathe, to slow down each time his breathing edges faster.
Aramis returns some uncountable length of time later, kneeling beside them. “d'Artagnan, can you manage this?” he asks softly. d'Artagnan doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t respond, and after a moment Aramis touches the back of his neck. “Lean back just a little,” he murmurs, helping d'Artagnan drink from a water skin. After a moment he lets it fall, pressing cool, wet fingers to d'Artagnan’s forehead and neck.
d'Artagnan’s exhausted, suddenly, slumping against Athos. His breathing’s more or less level now, but he can’t summon the energy to do anything.
“No, it’s fine,” Aramis says over his head. “You’ve seen this before, Athos. So have I. It looks a little different from this side, though.”
“I suppose it must do,” Athos agrees. “d'Artagnan, can you walk? We need to go inside.”
“Walk,” d'Artagnan repeats vaguely.
“I’d take that as a no,” Aramis suggests. “Here, d'Artagnan, drink a little more, all right?”
d'Artagnan shakes his head, pushing against Athos to try and see him. “Athos?”
“Yes.”
“It’s real?”
“What’s real?”
d'Artagnan glances around, unable to find the words. When he looks back, Athos is nodding. “This is really France, d'Artagnan, and you are really here.”
“Real,” he repeats.
“It’s real, d'Artagnan. You’re home.”