AN: I watched Enchanted the other night in the midst of my exams hoping it would inspire me to write lovely fluff, but this happened instead. Whoops.

"Porthos!" He heard the cry from the hall as he left the room, turning his back on Charon for the second time. At the end of the hallway he saw his brothers just rounding the corner. Aramis led, the corners of his mouth already beginning to turn up as their eyes met. His sword was sheathed at his side. The fighting must be over.

Porthos was just about to offer a smile in return when Aramis's eyes widened suddenly. He saw fear flash across three faces and dove to the side without thinking as Aramis stepped forward to meet Charon.

Porthos watched the dagger meant for him sink into Aramis's stomach. He hadn't even had time to draw his sword.

Dimly, he heard D'Artagnan's furious cry, saw Athos's sword flash as it cleaved through Charon's flesh, but he couldn't react. All his attention was fixed on Aramis, who had dropped to his knees, one hand wrapping around the dagger's hilt as if to pull the wicked blade from his body. Porthos shouldn't have been able to hear the small sound that escaped Aramis's lips then, but he did, and it cut him to the quick. He dropped to his knees as well, but did nothing else.

My fault.

He knew he should be moving, that he should grab Aramis and put pressure on the wound and pray to God it hadn't hit anything vital, but he just stayed frozen, staring in shock, as Athos did his duty for him.

My fault.

Aramis was watching him with wide eyes. He groaned when Athos put pressure on the wound, one hand lifting towards Porthos in an abortive gesture. Athos pressed harder and his eyes slipped shut.

My fault.

Only when Aramis's eyes closed did Porthos break from his daze. He stumbled to his feet awkwardly. His limbs seemed loathe to obey his commands, and he staggered slightly, tripping over something in his haste to get to Aramis.

Part of his brain registered that is was Charon's body beneath his feet, chest laid open from Athos's blade, but that seemed so unimportant right now.

D'Artagnan grabbed his arm as he went to sink to his knees again beside Aramis, keeping him on his feet. It took him several long moments to realize he was speaking.

"We need to get him out of here!" D'Artagnan was nearly shouting, voice ragged with grief, and Porthos wondered how many times he'd had to say it before it sunk in. He nodded obediently, still too stunned to do anything else, and allowed Athos to haul Aramis's limp form up and into Porthos's arms. Aramis's head lolled limp against his bicep like a puppet with cut strings. Porthos fought the urge to be sick.

He didn't know how they got to the small, dark room, or who the wizened old man was that shoved him aside impatiently, away from the bed where he had laid Aramis, but he knew Flea's hands when they found his face. Her touch was soft as she wiped away tears he hadn't known he'd been crying and led him quietly from the room.

Part of him cried out, demanded that he shake her off, return to Aramis's side, but he couldn't find the voice to speak or the energy to put up a fight. Dully, he noted the fresh bandage on her shoulder. He wondered if the same old man had done that.

He was glad Flea didn't speak to him, because he wasn't sure he was capable of talking at the moment. He didn't know how long they sat in the room, sunlight shining from a high window, before Flea glanced over his shoulder, fear pinching the corners of her eyes. Porthos turned.

It was Athos. His face was white and there was blood on his hands, but the stricken look Porthos had expected to see in his eyes wasn't there.

It wasn't there.

In less than three seconds Porthos was on his feet and pushing past him, earlier paralysis forgotten in the face of this fresh development. Athos was not in pain, so Aramis was not dead. His mind couldn't process any further than that right now, but for the moment, that was enough.

The old man looked up as he all but charged into the room. Porthos noted that blood had seeped all across the front of his clothing and up to the elbows of his shirt. Fear clenched his heart again as he realized his hope might be premature.

The man answered the question before he could ask it. "He's alive. Dagger missed everything he needs. Lost a lot of blood, though." His eyes flickered ruefully down at his own splattered chest. "Maybe too much," he added softly. The sympathy in his voice was tangible. Porthos wanted to scream. "You c'n stay with him, if you want." He nodded towards the bed. Porthos turned his head slowly to look.

Aramis lay on sheets that had once been white. He was far whiter. It was as if all color had been leeched from his face, leaving him nothing more than a shadow among the dirty blankets. His dark hair contrasted too deeply with his skin. He looked dead already.

The sight was like a knife to the chest, a dagger slipping between his ribs, cutting deep and bleeding out what little remained of his hope and leaving him empty.

A chair sat beside the bed. Porthos knew Athos had put it there for him. At some point, gratitude would come, that they hadn't left him, that Athos wasn't pushing him now, but that gratitude stood on the edge of a knife, and only time would tell which way it would fall.

He sat down heavily. Footsteps behind him told him Athos had entered the room. "I sent D'Artagnan to Treville," he said softly, stopping a few feet away. "Would you like company?"

Porthos shook his head wordlessly and Athos left. Porthos knew he understood.

He wanted to reach out, take Aramis's hand, speak to him, but he couldn't move. What right did he have to touch him?

My fault.

He reached out and tentatively lifted the blanket, dropping it again at the sight of clean bandages wrapped around Aramis's stomach. He didn't want to see, too much of a coward to witness his failure.

I don't want to fight you, Charon. The words echoed in his head, mocking him with their sentiment. If he had fought longer, harder, could this have been avoided? If he had not stopped with the knife at Charon's throat, but pressed on, until flesh gave way and blood soaked his hands, would they be here now?

Perhaps it would have been better to have Charon's blood on his hands than Aramis's.

He recalled Charon's body falling under Athos's sword. Of course, now he had both.

But he wasn't sad for Charon. He had already let go, too horrified at the lengths his once friend had been willing to go to. It was over between them the moment Charon shot Flea.

So why hadn't he finished the job himself? Aramis was never meant to die for him.

I'm not like you Charon. That's why I left. I'm a Musketeer. That's what he had said. But what Musketeer would have left a threat behind as he did? He had risked his life, his brothers' lives, on the strength of a childhood friendship, and now all could be lost.

Aramis could be lost.

Time lost all meaning. He didn't know how long he sat there, watching the rise and fall of Aramis's chest as if it was all he was holding on to. Perhaps it was.

Athos came, and D'Artagnan, and once even Treville. They told him to eat, pressed water into his hands. He ignored them. He felt oddly divorced from it all, as if nothing was quite real. He didn't look at them, didn't speak, didn't move except when he had to. He just waited.

He wanted to pray like Aramis did, but he couldn't find the words. He wondered if God could answer the unspoken prayers. Surely he would hear the anguish in Porthos's heart and respond?

He had stared at Aramis for almost a full minute before it registered. Aramis was staring back at him.

Brown eyes squinted uncertainly at him, pained and exhausted but awake.

"Aramis," he breathed, voice hoarse from disuse. He all but fell out of the chair in his haste, landing on his knees beside the bed.

"Ar' you ok'y?" Aramis's voice was weak, his words slurring together, but the tone was unmistakable. He was concerned.

Porthos bit back the laugh that threatened to burst from him. If he started, he would never stop. "I'm the one who should be asking that," he whispered.

Aramis shook his head stubbornly against the pillow. Even the slight motion sent pain dancing across his handsome features. "Wha's wrong?" he tried again. His eyes flicked down to Porthos's hands, twisted in his lap. "Not touchin' me."

There was the faintest edge of hurt to the words, as if Porthos was refraining from touching him because he was somehow offended rather than horrified with himself and so stricken by guilt it was almost crippling.

But that pain in his voice was all Porthos needed. A growl tore through his chest and his hand shot out, catching up Aramis's fingers convulsively. He tried not to squeeze too hard, but his heart lightened ever so slightly when the corners of Aramis's lips turned up.

"'M sorry," Aramis mumbled thickly. Porthos stared at him in disbelief.

"Sorry about what?" he managed to ask, voice breaking with the strain of trying to sound normal.

"Your friend," Aramis sighed, eyelids beginning to droop once more. "I killed him."

"You've nothing to be sorry about," Porthos told him fiercely. "I'm the one who should be apologizing. It was all m-"

"Not your fault," Aramis cut him off weakly, struggling to keep his eyes open and hold his gaze. "Not your fault," he repeated stubbornly. "Okay?"

Porthos sensed Aramis was waiting for an answer before he would surrender to the rest his body still desperately needed.

"Okay," he whispered, feeling the word slide through his very being.

Aramis nodded contentedly, eyes falling shut as he lost the battle with sleep. Tentatively, Porthos reached forward to brush the hair from his forehead. Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to his temple.

"Okay," he whispered again as he turned to call softly for Athos and D'Artagnan, still clutching Aramis's hand. And maybe it would be.

Just a short, angsty oneshot that blindsided me. Please review!