Summary: "As Athos watched, the young Gascon seemed to grow. Taller, broader. Willing to carry this knowledge and this responsibility."

Author's Notes: Here I go once again, seizing upon minutia and running with it: Why would they put Porthos out to stitch him up? I can't believe it's because he lacks reserve. Someone like Porthos, who has probably known the worse conditions possible as a child and then became a soldier, unable to bear pain or stitches? Nah. It's gotta be something else...

Medical knowledge in the 1600s was shite.

And I am further reminded why I don't write death fics. This one hurt me.

I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

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"It's the best way with Porthos. We've learned from experience." - Athos, Commodities

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Athos rubbed his knuckles lightly and looked at Aramis. When he was certain that Porthos was unconscious, he glanced up at Athos through wavy hair and nodded. Then he turned his attention to the deep, long gash that ran from Porthos' elbow nearly all the way to his wrist.

Athos shook his hand and left the empty farm house they'd found. His horse was waiting patiently under a tree and in his saddlebag was a skin of wine that he desperately needed.

"Why do you do that? Punch him out? Who is around to disturb?" asked d'Artagnan, at his heels.

Athos stopped walking and turned slowly.

"You think it is because he lacks composure." Athos' voice must not have been as level as he hoped. D'Artagnan backed away, physically and verbally.

"I just meant...Porthos rarely hesitates to verbalize what he's feeling. We're in the middle of no where, what does it matter?" Athos studied his boots for a moment before taking a deep breath and looked at d'Artagnan just barely from beneath his hat.

The boy should know, since he had attached himself so firmly to them.

"Years ago, the three of us were on a mission. Porthos was injured, a long slash. We were not far from an inn, Aramis went about sewing up the wound. Porthos had seemed fine. He was pained, yes, but in good spirits. He fell silent at some point while Aramis worked. I didn't...it did not seem like anything was amiss. But when Aramis finished, it became clear something wasn't right." Athos forced his next words.

"It appeared that Porthos had died, there on the table, and we had failed to notice."

Athos closed his eyes and he was back there, in that dimly lit room that smelled of blood and sweat.

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"Porthos?" Aramis patted Porthos' cheek gently and then more forcefully when there was no response. "Porthos, look at me." Porthos' head lolled to the side and Athos couldn't breathe.

Deep, brown eyes stared at nothing, empty and lifeless.

"No," cried Aramis fervently. "Porthos, no." Aramis' blood-stained hands were slipping through Porthos' dark curls, smoothing over his cheeks, trailing over his neck, gripping his shoulders. "Please...don't..." Aramis shook the big man. "Porthos!"

A numbing, fearful cold spread through Athos as Porthos' head jerked limply, heedless of his friend's pleas.

Athos watched something go out in Aramis as his chin dropped to his chest, his breath shuddering.

This wasn't right.

They'd gotten to him in time.

Porthos had been talking, laughing.

Aramis had stitched the wound.

It was all meant to be okay now.

Athos felt he could have drowned in the darkness of Porthos' empty eyes.

He forced himself to look elsewhere. He didn't know long it was before he realized the broad chest he was looking at, but not seeing, was moving. Slowly, but it was moving. He waited until he was sure.

"Aramis," Athos tried, his voice a whisper. Aramis didn't look up, his eyes squeezed shut, lips moving silently. "Aramis," he repeated louder, grabbing the younger man. "Look."

Together, they watched Porthos' chest move as he breathed. It was slow, slower than even sleep should have been, but it was there.

"I don't understand," murmured Aramis, tears unchecked on his cheeks. He reached out and ever so gently closed Porthos' eyes.

Porthos didn't flinch.

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"It only took him a few hours to wake, but when he did," Athos paused, searching for a way to explain. "He was not himself. Confused and groggy, but also afraid. Fearful of something he couldn't articulate. After a few days, he improved and it was nearly like the whole thing had never happened, aside from the scars on his leg. We hoped that was the end of it."

"But it wasn't."

"The next time, it was two days before Porthos woke and nearly a week before he had his senses about him. Surgeons were no help. Aramis couldn't sleep, barely ate." Athos shook his head, throwing off the memories. "The only thing that was the same was a deep wound that took some time to sew and bandage."

"That's the trigger," mused d'Artagnan. "Not just injury, but one involving a lot of work to mend."

"Something must have happened," said Athos, "before he met me, before he met Aramis. He must have been hurt so badly or for so long that he..."

"He had no escape but into his own mind," finished d'Artagnan.

"It's not always like that," assured Athos, "If the wound is light or he can be distracted, or if he's already unconscious. But when it's serious or takes prolonged stitching, knocking him out is just easier."

Porthos' dead eyes. Aramis' heartbroken pleading.

"Easier for us all."

D'Artagnan nodded gravely and looked at him with big, soft eyes.

"Seeing him like that. It must have been...horrible."

"It is not something I care to experience again," said Athos. "But it does not happen so often. And not for a long time, now that we know. We're careful." He looked at d'Artagnan meaningfully. "As you must be."

D'Artagnan eyes widened slightly.

"Porthos doesn't know. Not really. He doesn't remember it like we do and he can't predict it. You've seen how we manage him. If I'm not there or Aramis isn't, hopefully you will be." As Athos watched, the young Gascon seemed to grow. Taller, broader. Willing to carry this knowledge and this responsibility.

"Of course. I would do whatever he needed."

"D'Artagnan," Athos weighted his words heavily, "that first time, we thought he was gone. If it had been someone who didn't know...not me and Aramis..." D'Artagnan's face hardened.

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After the second time, after the days of uncertainty, the waking and the fear, and Aramis speaking too gently, Porthos truly slept in the next room.

Aramis was carefully still. Exhausted and wan, but fixated. Athos looked at the friend sitting next to him, waiting for whatever it was that Aramis was thinking about.

"If we hadn't been here, if had been anyone else..."

"I know," said Athos lowly. "They would have given him up for dead."

"He could have woken up in a box." Athos nodded. Whatever this was, it could happen again.

"We could tell the Captain."

"I don't think he would want us to. Porthos would see it like a liability. A weakness," said Aramis bitterly. Athos leaned against Aramis lightly.

"Then we will handle it. You and me, Aramis." Aramis flashed him a thin but grateful smile.

"I don't suppose we could just convince him to stop getting hurt?" Athos nearly returned the grin.

"Unlikely." Aramis looked across the room through the open door where Porthos snored softly.

"I hope you and I are enough."

"We will have to be. Until there is someone else we can trust with it."

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"I will never give up on him," vowed d'Artagnan. "And I won't let anyone else."

Athos allowed himself a small smile.

"I know."