Title: The Ways to Home

By: tidia

Disclaimer: BBC owns the characterizations they have created of the Musketeers.

Spoilers: Yes 1.10

All mistakes my own- I did not read this over before I posted.

Notes: Why am I writing this much? Real life. Anyway, I believe I saw a prompt where d'Artagnan was hurt more by Athos than he let on so that is the first part and then I will explain the second part...

The First Way Home

The bullet cut through his side and no amount of preparation prepared him for the burning sensation that took his breath away or the force that made him stumble back. Thankfully, he was eased to the ground. Aramis, Porthos and Treville were with him, and he tried to keep his eyes open, but the shock and pain were making him feel spent.

In theory it had been a good plan. He was rethinking the musket fire.

When next he awoke he was in Milady's care with an ache that made him feel every stitch that had been placed. He had pushed beyond the pain though to complete the mission, no time to recover in order to save Constance.

As he walked back from the Bonacieux residence to the garrison every step was filled with pain. His heartbeat echoed in his side. He entered the garrison, not bothering to check on his friends who had a report to give to Treville, then were heading to a tavern.

D'Artagnan shut the door to his room, took off his boots and lay on top of the bed. He felt hot and cold, sad and angry all at once. He had lost Constance.

It was a fitful sleep. Turning in his sleep made his side flare in spiky pain that left his gasping, but at least woke him from his nightmares. All of them dying, Constance's throat being cut. He guess he should have been satisfied with them all being alive.

He lay in bed taking slow breaths to help the pain subside. It was enough to send him into a doze to wake up for the next day.

"We are to go to the palace," Athos reported to him before the roll.

"Are you well?"Aramis frowned in his scrutiny.

D'Artagnan wiped a hand down his face. "Fine."

Porthos put an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulder. "And Constance?"

"Her husband attempted suicide and out of loyalty she has decided to remain with him." He swallowed, telling them made it all too real.

He had stunned his friends at the unexpected turn of events. They had thought they would reconcile and she would give up her husband. He had thought the same.

"I am sorry." Athos nodded.

There was no time for any further discussion, and neither was there much to say about the matter as they witnessed the news of the queen. They waited for Aramis to return to them, d'Artagnan shifting on his horse as his side made itself known. Something passed between Aramis and Athos, but d'Artagnan allowed the moment to pass, too miserable as they continued to the garrison with a day's activities planned. D'Artagnan was looking forward to the evening's rest, which may have distracted as he dismounted his horse to find his knees buckling.

He caught himself on the saddle, but his strength was waning and he was going to crumple until Porthos grabbed him from behind, pulling on his injury causing him to gasp in the unexpected onslaught.

"d'Artagnan!" Porthos yelled into his ear, but it brought the others. "He was going to collapse."

"Where are you hurt?" Aramis ghosted his hands over d'Artagnan's uniform.

The young musketeer shook his head. It was the wound that Athos's had given him, and the older man would find it difficult that it was giving his protégé pain. "I was just caught off guard-" He tried to shake off Porthos's grip.

But Athos was too quick in his determination. "Check his side, Aramis. Where I shot him."

Aramis nodded, but showed sympathy that he did view the wound in the stable. "Upstairs."

It was a slow, halting trip up the flight of stairs to Aramis's room, but once settled on the bed all d'Artagnan wanted to do was sleep. His whole body ached, but he was forced to strip off his shirt which was a struggle as his arms filled with lethargy and then he was only limited to using one arm as lifting the other one caused him to fold in on himself.

Athos helped sort him out, although he did not meet d'Artagnan's eyes.

"Some of the stitching has ripped and it's infected." Aramis's hand went to his forehead. "You're fevered. Why didn't you say something?"

He closed his eyes to try to distance himself from the pain Aramis was causing as he probed the wound and his headache. "I did not notice and we've been busy with setting a trap, saving Constance. . ." he did not mention his broken heart.

"Drink this." Athos lifted his head and brought a cup to his lips of cognac. After he had savored the liquor, Athos placed his head gently on the pillow. "Rest."

"I am going to pick out the stitches," Aramis stated.

D'Artagnan drifted in a haze. He didn't know if he was awake or not, but he was warm, too warm and uncomfortable.

Athos was suffering along with his young brother with a high fever that was relentless. Aramis had resorted to attaching a dozen leeches near the wound. "Why is he so grave?"

Aramis shook his head. "I do not know." He removed the leeches, they had left their mark behind. Aramis licked his lips. "I requested a priest, Athos."

Athos stood up and Porthos got between the two men as Athos announced, "I will not allow it." Athos had caused the death of his friend. What was worse for a moment when his wife was in his arms, and he was pointing the musket at d'Artagnan he felt anger. He was angry at all the men who slept with his wife and wanted to restore his honor as the cuckold husband.

Aramis bent down to place his hand on d'Artagnan's forehead and the Gascon leaned into it. "You cannot deny it. He's a Catholic. It's his soul."

"Aramis, you're saying that all is lost." There was an emptiness in him that no amount of wine would fill if d'Artagnan died by his hand.

"No, I'm not." Aramis shook his head.

"Last Rites. . ." Athos started.

Aramis put a hand on Athos's shoulder- it was an offer of comfort. "Think of it as a blessing."

"We could all use it," Porthos commented, having been silent and stepping aside when he saw Athos calm. He took a seat by the edge of d'Artagnan's bed. "Just make him happy. d'Artagnan's going to be fine."

"Because of your close relationship with God?" Aramis asked, bemused for the first time in two days.

"Because I have faith." Porthos shrugged his shoulders.

They stood witness as the priest prayed and placed the oil on d'Artagnan. Porthos and Aramis left him alone, using they would bring some food upstairs. No one had an appetite.

"You foolish boy. This plan to put yourself in danger. And what about me? I shot you, d'Artagnan. I shot you and now you lay here." He gripped the boy's hand. "Do not do this to me. Do not."

He heard the sigh, and looked up to see that d'Artagnan's hair was drenched, and his face had lost the redness. Athos released the younger man's hand and brought a hand to feel the Gascon's forehead still marked by the sacred oil. It was cooler.

Athos choked back a sob, but couldn't stop the tears of relief. Porthos and Aramis returned and found him like this, rushing in believing the worse had happened.

Aramis frowned. "His fever broke." The frown morphed into a smile and pure glee. "His fever broke!"

"I told you he would be fine." Porthos clapped Athos on the shoulder.

They did not leave Aramis's room though, waiting for d'Artagnan to fully wake. Athos was dozing in the chair by the bed, immensely uncomfortable, but unable to resist the exhaustion. He felt a hand on his knee.

"Athos?"

It was enough to bring Athos fully awake and see that d'Artagnan had shifted and was trying to sit up. Athos braced him with an arm, then placed the pillows behind the Gascon. "I'm tired."

He looked wane, but lucid and blessedly cool. "Go back to sleep," he whispered not wanting to wake the others so he could have a moment with d'Artagnan.

"Are you well?"

Athos pursed his lips and then smiled. His wife was still alive, hopefully far from France. He thought that had brought him peace, but it was the realization that he had gained another brother in his heart that brought him solace. "I am now. I never met to gravely hurt you. I never meant any ill will towards you."

d'Artagnan frowned. Athos would always feel guilty for shooting d'Artagnan to see the scar, he had told the young man as much, but d'Artagnan said any mark he would bear as penance for foolishness. "I know there is no malice in your heart. I know." He blinked slowly, opened his eyes once more. "If the worse ever happens then it was an honorable death. Don't take that away from me." d'Artagnan closed his eyes and fell asleep.

"To honor." Athos could honor these men as they honored him with their stalwart friendship.