"Aramis."

"...Aramis?"

"ARAMIS!"

At the cry, the marksman jolted his head with a snort and a flail. His usual grace of movement completely lost as he flapped his limbs in an apparent attempt at staying seated on the bench before the supper laden table.

"What?" he barked indignantly at Athos as he finally righted himself, shooting a frown in the direction of a sniggering Porthos.

"I think he was just trying to save you from drowning in your stew," d'Artangan said, a grin adorning his face as he stifled his own snigger when a death glare was also sent his way. He dropped his eyes to his own bowl of food in mock apology, amusement still glinting when he caught the gaze of Porthos who openly laughed once again.

"I think you should consider taking yourself to your bed," Athos said, his quirked brow indicating exasperation at the antics of his comrades...but the slight up turn of the corner of his mouth indicating otherwise. "Perhaps you should also consider going there alone for once so you may actually get some sleep."

"Why on earth should I be considering taking myself to bed at this hour?" Aramis said, affronted. "What am I? Twelve?"

"The way you've been acting over these last few days would say that you're not far off the mark," Athos replied, his lip twitching.

"What are you talking about Athos?" Aramis said thickly, a moment before a sneeze rocketed from his mouth.

"Eurgh. I'm no psychic Aramis but I reckon it's probably got something to do with the stuff that's currently leaking out o' your face," Porthos said, covering his mouth with his hands in mock horror as if it would warn off the tidal wave of plague which he had predicted would stem from his ailing friend and consume the garrison.

"I told you days ago, I am fine," Aramis said with a pout. "I don't get sick."

"I'm fairly certain you mentioned that thirty seconds or so before I had to pick your arse out of the dirt that one time last year," Porthos said with a grin. One which widened at the look of betrayal which Aramis fired in his general direction.

"Or the time before you when you were in bed for two weeks after you insisted on coming with us with a full blown flu when we trekked through the snow to deliver a pointless package to whichever Duke it was last winter," d'Artangan piped up, stifling another snigger at Aramis' squeak of indignation. "And then worried us all half to death whilst you burned your way through a fever in the arse end of nowhere with no medical supplies," he continued, openly grinning as their marksman began a disgruntled grumbling under his breath.

"Or the time you fell down a river bank when you fainted after you ignored a raging chest infection, all the while protesting how well you felt," Athos added quietly, a serious note to his voice. "If I remember rightly that was the time we thought you had actually died when we pulled your body from the almost frozen river until you coughed up half of the Seine...which did nothing to help your chest if I also remember rightly."

At Athos' addition, Aramis had the good grace to stop his mumbling, recognising the chastising tone to their leader's voice. In truth he still felt a little guilty at the worry he had caused the group as a result of his stubborn actions although he would never admit as such. He couldn't quite rein in the overtly dramatic eye roll, however, which resulted in yet another round of roaring laughter from Porthos accompanied by the still suppressed chortle of d'Artangan.

"But it's true, I don't get sick!" Aramis still protested weakly, the effect of his statement somewhat ruined by the shudder which passed through his traitorous body. "...often."

Though the others mirrored his eye roll in unison, in truth they could not argue the statement. On a whole, of the men, Aramis was least likely to succumb to whatever strains of illness rattled throughout the garrison's tightly packed bodies. Whenever something took hold of the Musketeers, it would spread easily from man to man as they worked, trained and lived in the cramped spaces surrounding the yard. And for the most part, there always seemed to be the slightly smug form of Aramis, standing above the infirm even when he was elbow deep trying to ease everyone's symptoms with his patchy medical knowledge.

Which just meant that when he did finally get ill it hit him hardest.

He was also easily the worst patient of all the Musketeers, frequently protesting his own sickness even when he could barely keep his feet. Ignoring advice from his brothers and physicians alike. Often the only way to keep him under imposed bed rest was a loudly barked order from their Captain coupled with necessary manhandling, usually from Porthos, although in truth when he was finally sick enough to take to bed rest he was usually pliable enough for a child to herd him there.

His head and shoulders drooped despite himself. In truth he felt awful. What had started as infrequent sniffles and a light cough had developed over a week of early starts and hard patrols late into the night, into a full blown flu which was beginning to sap him entirely of his strength. Stubborn nature be damned. Catching Athos' scrutiny of his wilting self, he pulled his shoulders back, sitting up straight and barely suppressing a groan as his aching muscles protested.

"I'm fine," he said, meeting Athos' eye, adding a honey tone to his voice which he usually reserved for when he was attempting to convince the Captain of his innocence for a crime he had usually committed...The frown deepening on Athos face suggested his attempt had failed.

"We are on the late patrol of the palace again tonight Aramis," Athos said, his voice even, "if you are not up to protecting the safety of the King and Queen then I need to know."

The Red Guard had spied a man lurking around the palace grounds a couple of weeks prior and security had been amped up considerably. Although a small number of Musketeers were always present on patrol throughout the night, a duty none of them relished when their turn rolled around, the guard number had been considerably bulked, temporarily, until the threat was definitely nullified. Resulting in more regular patrols and every man in the garrison spending at least three nights of the week strolling the palace grounds. A so far fruitless task.

"I resent your lack of faith in my abilities quite frankly Athos," Aramis bit out, a smile gleaming in his eyes despite his seemingly angry words. The attempt at bravado was somewhat lost on his brothers as they all heard the fatigue laying heavy in his voice.

"We can 'andle it tonight Aramis, just get yourself some sleep ay?" Porthos said, mirth still lacing his words but a genuine concern creeping into his expression as he noted the dark smudges of exhaustion under his brother's eyes for the first time.

"Porthos, I assure you tonight will be the breeziest of breezes and then I shall take myself to bed and not get out of it until I feel better," Aramis replied, instinctively dodging the concern and knowing that his statement left room to wiggle out of his words. After all, he hadn't said how much better he would have to be feeling before he decided to leave hsi bed. A few hours sleep post patrol would do him the world of good...surely.

"In that case, eat up," Athos said, motioning with his eyes to the Spaniard's barely touched meal. "We'll be setting off for duty at sundown." Athos cast an eye over Aramis' bowed head at the quizzical face of d'Artangan and the knowing face of Porthos. Both of the older Musketeers had extensive experience with their marksman's stubbornness when it came to his health. They unfortunately knew that the only way they were going to get him to admit how he truly felt was to run himself down to the point of no return. But they would be there to catch him when he did.

Aramis swallowed thickly, glowering at Athos with a pout before nodding curtly and taking a defiant mouthful of his now thoroughly cold stew despite his absolute absence of appetite.

The grounds were almost silent as the two men made their way around the palace in the darkness of the wee hours of the morning. The moon gleamed off the white marble of the grand statues dotted around the garden, and seemed to make the light coloured gravel crunching beneath their feet glow.

"How long until sunrise again my friend?" Aramis bit out, panting a little at the effort of talking now his nose had thoroughly blocked up. His breathing had become more laboured as the chill of the evening had taken hold of them and settled, it seemed, directly in his chest.

"Not long now Aramis," Porthos replied, glancing out worriedly from under his hat at the sheen of sweat which now coated his friend's face. There had been a steady decline of banter coming from the marksman over the duration of their patrol, a sure fire way of knowing that he was beginning to feel less than amazing.

"This night is beginning to feel like it's decided not to end," Aramis replied with a huff of laughter. A cough rattled through his chest a moment later sounding wet in the stillness of the evening.

"You could always 'ead back early to the garrison," Porthos replied, knowing the answer he would receive before he got it. "Tonight is as dead as every other night. That fella is long gone."

Aramis had barely opened his mouth to protest when a shout from across the garden caught their attentions.

"Stop! In the name of the King!"

The men glanced at one another for a moment, before taking off across the dewy grass in the direction of the Red Guard's cry. Porthos easily stretched out ahead of Aramis, unwillingly pushing his concern for his friend to the back of his mind as he focused on the task at hand. The safety of their monarchs came first above any one of their lives in the line of duty so he blocked out the wheezing gasps coming from behind him where the Spaniard lagged and dug his heels in as he put on another burst of speed. In any case, if he was there to take down the shadow darting ahead between the topiary it would mean Aramis wouldn't have to strain himself trying to do the same.

At that thought he moved forward, changing course slightly to try to head off the figure dashing in front of him. He could see several forms of the Red Guard trailing behind their target and suddenly the shapes of d'Artangan and Athos closing in from the other side.

The cool air felt wonderful on his sweat slicked skin as he tore towards the man, cursing up a storm at the low hedges that the King seemed to favour as he leapt over yet another one in his path. So concerned was he with the obstacles slowing him down, Porthos did not notice his quarry stopping suddenly and whipping around to meet him. He grunted as he ran bodily into him, ricocheting off what seemed to be a wall of muscle and crashing to the ground. Surprise registered for a moment before the pain as he noted that the man was thicker and taller than him. Something he didn't often come across given his own broad stature.

A moment later, a dull ache seemed to spread up from his flank as he lay prone on the floor, and he pressed a gloved hand to the spot the pain was radiating from. He registered the gleaming red coating the leather with a shock as he pulled his hand away, looking up to his assailant and seeing the moonlight shine suddenly off the dripping blade he held in his hand.

"Porthos!"

The large Musketeer looked up in a daze, the wound having dulled his senses as his brain raced to catch up to the events unfolding around him. d'Artangan and Athos came haring into the clearing, rapiers drawn although they dared not move towards the man as he stood closer to Porthos than they, brandishing his dagger.

"Place your weapon on the ground sir," Athos bit out dangerously. The worry for his friend making his words sharper and laced with every authority his past as a Comte would allow.

"Never!" the deranged man screamed into the night. Waving it erratically as the Musketeers slowly began advancing. "Step away! Don't come any closer...I am here to stop the King before he damns us all to hell by laying with his bastard Spanish wife!" Spittle flew through the air with the force of his words and he took a step towards Porthos' prone form, stilling the advancement of his comrades.

"We can have a word with his Majesty and ask him to grant you an audience to air your grievances," d'Artangan lied easily, keeping eye contact with the man in an attempt to calm him down. "Just step away from the Musketeer."

Porthos muddled mind did not catch the deception for what it was as his wound oozed sluggishly into the ground. He was thoroughly confused as to why the whelp would be offering such a thing and more confused as to why Athos was letting him.

"The King can rot in purgatory for all I care!" the man yelled out suddenly, eyes rolling in his head and the whites standing out starkly in the darkness. "But if I must kill you all first to get to him then so be it!"

At that word he lunged forward, knife brandished high as he aimed to plunge it into Porthos, who could not hope to react in time to move away from his doom.

Twin cries of "No!" were accompanied by the unmistakable report of a musket, and the crazed man was pulled up short, eternal surprise painted on his face as he looked down to the hole which had just opened up in his chest. Blood bloomed across his ragged shirt as his heart beat its last and he slowly crumpled down to the floor. A final ragged breath tearing itself from his lungs.

Porthos groaned as he turned his head, seeing d'Artangan and Athos whipping around in an attempt to also find his saviour.

The wan and shaking form of Aramis stood, fifty paces behind them. A smoking gun in his hand as he still sighted down the barrel, his handsome face twisted in rage at his felled opponent. None of them could miss the sweat pouring down from his brow, nor the subtle tremors which were assaulting his body as he twitched slightly in his misery. All forgotten as he had drawn his musket to put and end to the threat to his brother.

"Aramis?" d'Artangan said, worry clouding his voice as the marksman seemingly did not react to any of them.

"Easy Aramis, you've saved his life," Athos said, walking towards him slowly and keeping his tone even and low as he would a spooked horse. He placed a hand on top of the one which held the spent pistol, and lowered his brother's now freely shaking arm to his side.

"...Porthos?" Aramis whispered, his eyes shining with confusion and the fever which had painted two bright spots of colour high onto his cheeks.

"I'm alright, thanks to you," Porthos said, grunting in pain as he attempted to pull himself up to a sitting position. d'Artangan rushed down to his side to help him, pressing his hand firmly to the wound eliciting another grunt from Porthos.

Athos clapped a hand onto Aramis' trembling shoulder as realisation crossed the befuddled man's face. He made to take a step forward to join d'Artangan in checking over his brother, and promptly fell down into darkness as his legs folded beneath him.

Lord knows why but I always seem to enjoy fics where one or more of the guys ends up ill so I couldn't help but try my hand at one myself. As usual I only had the vaguest ideas for this story (actually I just had one line which won't leave me alone which I have yet to use in this fic but I will dammit!) so poor old Porthos getting stabbed was a bit out of the blue, but I'm going with it. The muse wants what the muse wants.

I know I'm beating up Aramis again too..but I can't help it. He is my favourite after all (don't tell the others).

As always, all comments and critiques are gratefully received!