A/N: And finally we get to see d'Artagnan in all of this, and the trio gets taken care of ^_^ Had to have a few serious moments given the circumstances, but please enjoy this final installment!

Laureleaf and Uia, thanks for the reviews! :)

Part 4: d'Artagnan

D'Artagnan watched the last tinges of color fade from the sky and kicked at a loose clod of grass. Night had almost totally fallen. The thought of staying out here overnight on his own without knowing how long it would take Porthos and Aramis to retrieve Athos was unappealing. Almost as bad as the thought of mucking out the garrison stables for a week, which was probably what was waiting for him back home.

But if a little insubordination and a trifling amount of what definitely had not been outright rebellion (because Athos wouldn't approve of that) was what it took for d'Artagnan to be granted permission to join the rescue mission, then that was that. The captain shouldn't have been foolish enough to believe that he would really sit this out.

Besides, d'Artagnan still had friends in Gascony who could provide them a safe place to recover inside the border if anyone ended up wounded. Didn't it just make sense for him to come along?

And after only a year with these three, d'Artagnan already knew the idea of emerging from this without any injuries was not only unlikely, it was laughable.

Still, waiting around with the horses was not what he'd had in mind. D'Artagnan kicked the grass clod again and huffed in aggravation.

"D'Artagnan!"

Whirling, instinctively drawing his sword, d'Artagnan squinted into the darkness to make out several figures heading his way. He nearly collapsed in relief to see that there were three of them. As they drew closer, though, the young Gascon narrowed his eyes.

"What…" His stupefied gaze trailed over the trio as they stopped close enough for the moonlight to reveal their respective conditions.

"He's still here, then? Good lad, d'Artagnan," Aramis exclaimed, bandages wrapped around his face, held on either side by the other two.

"Stop here, Aramis, it's d'Artagnan!" Porthos all but bellowed in Aramis's ear, as though the marksman hadn't just mentioned this very thing.

"I know that, Porthos! And not a moment too soon, I can feel you starting to limp worse, you know. Athos, will you be able to ride?"

Athos wasn't saying a word, face exhausted, but he nodded. After a second, Aramis demanded,

"Surely one of you must realize I can't see what he answered!"

"What… happened?" d'Artagnan demanded, staring. "You were only gone for an hour!"

"What did he say?" Porthos shouted towards Athos, who looked to be fading fast.

"Forget what he said, what did Athos say?" Aramis shouted back. "Can he ride or not?"

"Yes," d'Artagnan replied. He shook his head. "I take back all the things I've been saying about you for the last hour. I'm glad you made me stay here after all."

"Wait, what were you saying about us?"

"D'Artagnan, how far to the border?" Porthos boomed. "Aramis isn't goin' to be able to ride an' they both have wounds that need seein' to."

"Less than two hours," d'Artagnan said, holding up two fingers. "I know a place just inside the border we can rest the night. Looks like you need to be tended to as well…"

"What?"

"I can ride," Aramis protested. Given his by now familiar protest of being "fine" even if he had just been stabbed or thrown out a window or clobbered unconscious, d'Artagnan couldn't help but shoot him a skeptical smirk.

"I don't think even you can claim to be alright, Aramis."

"What's he sayin'? He ain't arguin' is he?"

Athos stepped forward at last, slamming his hands together in a booming clap that Aramis couldn't help but hear and Porthos couldn't help but see. All three of them fell silent as the swordsman's weary eyes turned to d'Artagnan. Athos pointed to Aramis, then d'Artagnan, then to a horse.

D'Artagnan nodded. "Aramis will ride with me," he agreed aloud for Aramis's benefit. "And you'll ride with Porthos. It's not easy terrain, Athos, especially in the dark, and you look dead on your feet."

Athos didn't even try to protest, just turned to Porthos and repeated the gesture: Porthos, himself, horse.

"Right. An' we need to hurry, d'Artagnan. They'll be comin' after us as soon as they realize we've made it outta the castle."

D'Artagnan hadn't even unpacked his bedroll, having hoped the rescue would be a quick one, so it was the work of a moment to load up two of the horses. The remaining two, d'Artagnan cut loose to find new homes; he didn't want to worry about leading them along if speed was of the essence. This done, he helped Aramis up into the saddle then pulled himself into place behind him. Porthos walked his own horse in line with d'Artagnan's, keeping Athos safely in front of him, and then they were off.

Despite the darkness, d'Artagnan knew their horses had excellent night vision and would do better to be given their own heads. The ride was still tense and cold, but no pursuers ever caught up and a couple of hours later, d'Artagnan nearly sagged with relief to find themselves in France once again. It was highly unlikely any enemy soldiers would follow escaped prisoners this far, not without a better reason than whatever the trio had probably done to give them reason to.

By the time he found the inn at the small border town, whose owner was an old family friend, Athos's head was drooping against his chest and even Aramis was silent. D'Artagnan helped them all dismount, handed off the reins to the stable boy, and guided his friends to a room inside.

"Athos," Aramis finally spoke up as Porthos urged the rescued swordsman to sit on the nearest bed. "When was the last time they fed you?"

D'Artagnan's gaze shot over to Athos, who frowned thoughtfully and shook his head.

"You don't remember?" d'Artagnan tried, feeling a shadow fall across his face. Athos shook his head again to confirm.

Of all the dishonorable things. The younger musketeer clenched his jaw. "Hold on, I'll have Alexandre bring some food and water."

Now that they were in relative safety, the reality of not only Athos's ordeal but his other two friends' conditions was starting to set in. All three probably needed a doctor, but a village as small as this was unlikely to have one, and their usual medic couldn't see.

But they were also clearly exhausted, and he doubted any of them could go further tonight.

Returning to the room, d'Artagnan looked quickly between the three and then moved to Athos first.

"What do I need to do?" he half-pleaded, desperate to help his mentor. "Where are you injured?"

Athos tipped his chin up, pointing to his throat, as Aramis blindly felt his way over, stumbling somewhat. D'Artagnan caught his breath to see the marks there, unwilling to believe that fellow soldiers would be so harsh with an unarmed prisoner.

"It'll help if we can bring the swelling down," Aramis told him as he ripped off another piece of his sash. He hesitated, then asked, "Did they use a rope to choke you with?"

Athos shook his head.

"No," d'Artagnan translated for him. "Definitely used their hands, Aramis, I- I can see the handprints." He felt sick, though the idea of Athos gasping for breath against a noose was an even worse thought.

Aramis inhaled sharply and nodded. "Okay, good. We'll want to wrap a cold, wet cloth around it, so hopefully that won't be too… discomforting. D'Artagnan, I need you to take this cloth and dunk it in the water bucket, then hang it out the window. After he's washed off and gotten something to eat, it should be cold enough to wrap. Athos, any other injuries?"

The swordsman shook his head.

"Are you telling the truth?" d'Artagnan asked quietly.

Athos's eyes softened, offering him a small smile as he nodded.

When d'Artagnan could find no trace of a lie, he took the ripped fabric from Aramis and stood. "Okay. We only have a few fresh bandages left, so I'll fetch some more of those as well. Aramis, Porthos, it's your turn when I get back."

He hurried to complete the required tasks; when he returned with bandages and a tray of food, d'Artagnan couldn't help but grin at the sight of Athos sitting on the bed with a long-suffering expression, one hand in either of the others' laps as Porthos and Aramis wrapped their remaining bandages around each of his wrists where the manacles had probably bit into his skin as he fought.

"Don't complain," Aramis was saying airily, doing surprisingly deft work for not being able to see. "Just because you can't talk doesn't mean I can't hear all the things you're saying in your head right now about how unnecessary this all is-"

Athos nodded fervently.

"-but you'll thank me later when you don't die of infection. Or gangrene will set in and they'll have to cut your hands off so you don't get blood poisoning, and how will you hold your swords then? With your teeth?"

Athos rolled his eyes.

"There, that should just about do it, and then you can get washed up and eat, then sleep. I daresay you need it."

With a strained sigh of relief, Athos pulled away from his two doctors, still trailing the ends of bandages, and took the bowl of stew d'Artagnan held out to him. D'Artagnan was glad to see if nothing else, their spirits were all intact.

"Alright, Aramis, next I-"

"-will see to Porthos," Aramis finished for him firmly. "He was shot. Don't let him tell you otherwise."

With a nervous gulp, d'Artagnan regarded the larger musketeer, notoriously unpleasant around needles, and asked, "Is this… going to require sewing?"

"I don't know. Have him show you the wound, and describe it to me."

D'Artagnan tugged Porthos's sleeve and gestured to the bandage pressed to his side. Porthos frowned.

"See to Aramis next."

"We'll get to me. You were shot," Aramis retorted impatiently. His shoulders slumped. "While protecting me. So, no, we're going to take care of you first."

D'Artagnan shook his head at Porthos and again pointed to his side, then knelt in front of the musketeer for a better look when Porthos huffed and pulled the bandage aside with a sharp hiss. D'Artagnan grabbed the bowl of water so he could dab a clean cloth in and start washing the blood away.

"How's it look?" Porthos asked as he tugged his shirt up to give d'Artagnan a better view. "Just a bandage, right? No need for anythin' drastic." He chuckled weakly, eyes hopeful.

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis asked. "If the ball's still in there, you're going to have to get it out. Wrapping a bandage is one thing, but stitches and surgery are a little beyond me at the moment, I'm afraid."

D'Artagnan shook his head, thanking his lucky stars as he answered, "No, I see an exit wound. It's not as bad as the blood made it look. Went through flesh, but nothing else."

"Now look here, pup, if you're even thinkin' about needlework-"

"I'm not," d'Artagnan assured him loudly, shaking his head. "No need to fear, my friend, looks like we've both been spared."

"Oh. Alright, then."

"So dramatic," Aramis scoffed. "Make sure it's clean, then just get a bandage on him."

"What do I do about his ears? Why can't he hear anything?"

"Ruptured eardrums. They'll have to heal on their own, so let's just bandage them for now to keep anything out while they're healing. Once that ringing in his ears dissipates, I'm sure he'll be back to his normal self, maybe even by tomorrow."

D'Artagnan relayed the message to Porthos as best as he could, though apparently his skills at pantomime were less than adequate, judging by the snickers it received. D'Artagnan glowered at his patient and wrapped the bandages with less gentleness than he might have otherwise.

Two down, and now only Aramis to go. By that point, Athos had finished washing up and eating—the quiet sounds of pain from swallowing and near frantic relief at having food were equally difficult to listen to—so d'Artagnan brought the now icy wrapping in from outside the window and looped it gingerly around the musketeer's throat, murmuring apologies as he did. Athos barely even winced, stoic as ever, but he did give d'Artagnan a tired nod of gratitude.

"Get some sleep," d'Artagnan tried to insist; Athos only pointed towards Aramis, and d'Artagnan knew none of the three would be getting any rest until every injury had been addressed. "Very well." He should have known better, at any rate. "Alright, Aramis… what do I do?"

If Aramis was even a little afraid, he was hiding it well, which meant it was a distinct possibility. D'Artagnan had never known anyone like these three to continue to joke and cut up as though they weren't on the brink of a fully justified bout of terror. Aramis only inhaled deeply and said,

"Let's start with getting these bandages off. And douse any lights that aren't absolutely necessary."

"Okay." Doing as he was bidden, d'Artagnan carefully began to unwind the cloth from around Aramis's face. Up close, he could hear the slight shakiness in Aramis's breath, confirming his belief that his friend was more anxious than he was letting on. Porthos had fallen as silent as Athos, both musketeers sitting with their eyes fixed unblinking on Aramis.

D'Artagnan didn't ask what would happen if the musketeer lost his sight for good; no matter how valiant a fighter and how lethal a sharpshooter he was still sure to be, they all knew it was cause for dismissal from the regiment.

Aramis's face under the bandage was red, his eyes clenched closed. A welt ran across one eye in a mirror image of Porthos's scar, leaving it swollen enough that he probably wouldn't be able to open it if he tried. Several splinters had ended up embedded in his face. Gently, d'Artagnan washed away the dirt and blood and pulled the debris free of the skin. More than one piece had come dangerously close to the eye sockets, but none seemed to have actually pierced the eyeball that he could tell.

"Now what?"

Aramis grimaced. "Now I suppose I can't put it off any longer."

D'Artagnan found himself holding his breath, leaning in with the others, as Aramis slowly blinked his one good eye open. The sharpshooter jerked a hand up to shield it from the light of the nearby candle d'Artagnan had been using to work with, but the dark eye tracked immediately over to the younger musketeer.

Aramis huffed. "Would have preferred a beautiful damsel to be the first thing I saw, not your ugly face."

Athos sat back with evident relief as d'Artagnan grinned widely at his friend and clapped Aramis on the shoulder. "Thank heaven!"

"He's alright, then?" Porthos boomed, anxious but beaming. "Hah! Knew there was nothin' to worry about!"

"Yes, you weren't worried for a second," Aramis replied with a snort, slumping back on the bed. "Nor was I. The bandages will have to stay on, though… some of these cuts felt too close to the eye and I can't take the chance of infection."

With a much lighter heart, d'Artagnan wrapped the fresh bandages around Aramis's face. So none of them had any lasting injury, or at least it seemed at the moment that they would all somehow squeak by with no permanent damage. Only these three, he thought with fondness. But, if there were ever three men who deserved the favor of Lady Luck…

"Alright," he said. "What else do I need to do?"

"Rest," Aramis advised. "You did marvelous, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan grinned but didn't move towards the bed, instead making his way to the chair in the corner where he could keep an eye on the three easily. As he did so, Porthos kicked off his boots and threw one at Aramis. It glanced off his shoulder, startling the marksman.

"Ow! What was that for-"

"That's for whatever you an' Athos were sayin' about me back there when I couldn't hear you."

"If you must know, we were agreeing how lucky we were to have you watching our backs, and how the Spanish would never see you coming! Then I predicted, quite accurately, that you were going to start thinking we were talking about you!"

"You said what?"

"Why are you even asking me questions when you know you won't hear the answer?"

"D'Artagnan, what's he sayin' about me?"

D'Artagnan held up his hands. "Leave me out of this."

"Yeah we'll see how funny you think you are when none of your lovers want to come near that face of yours now."

"As funny as it is that none of them wanted to go near yours to begin with."

"What?"

"I said I left a rat under your pillow, I hope you don't mind."

D'Artagnan glanced over at Athos, now reclined against the headboard, and caught the swordsman's eye. Athos smiled lightly, drowsy eyelids falling heavier and heavier. For the moment, they were all together, and they were all safe (as long as there was in fact no rat under Porthos's pillow).

For the moment, all was right with the world.