Breathing

Medics Make Bad Patients, Part I

Aramis curled on his side, his legs drawn to his middle as he lay on the bed. His flushed face was damp with a sheen of sweat, acting as glue matting his hair to the skin. He held tightly to the blanket with a shaking hand as his whole body shivered from chills, despite the fever that coursed through his body.

He curled into the blanket, squeezing it harder with his fist as his body was wracked with a fit of coughing, sucking the air from his lungs. He raised a shaking fist to his mouth in attempt to stifle his coughs.

The medic curls himself tighter into a ball as his stomach muscles protest the incessant strain caused by the coughing. He let a moan escape his lips, drawing the attention of his caretaker.

d'Artagnan took a wet cloth to begin wiping away the sweat from Aramis's face, neck and chest. Again and again he dipped the cloth in cooling water, tenderly ministering to the man who has nursed him and his brothers back from sickness and injury more times than he can count.

Aramis insisted on lying on his side so he could keep an eye on Athos in the opposite bed. The familiar scene of Porthos holding the older Musketeer upright in his arms has changed since he fell into a coma.

The large Musketeer now keeps vigil in a chair beside Athos's bed, sitting for hours while holding a limp hand in his own, watching as his friend lies motionless and frighteningly still. It is a place he has not moved from since his friend slipped into a coma last night.

M. Molyneux told the Musketeers there was nothing they could do for Athos but wait.

Doing nothing doesn't settle well with Porthos, however; even if Athos is unaware of his devotion. He insists on sitting with his unconscious friend, holding his hand and talking to him about memories of favorite missions, ladies and drinking—anything just to let Athos know he is not alone.

Aramis can hear the soft mutterings from the other bed, though he cannot make out what Porthos is saying. The large Musketeer speaks softly as though to shut out prying ears, keeping his conversation only intended for Athos's unconscious ears.

The sight before him makes Aramis's heart break to pieces. He should be helping Porthos take care of their sick brother, not lying here doing nothing but watching.

The short calm while observing his brothers is interrupted with a brutal fit of coughing that morphs into a fit of retching. Aramis's stomach rejects the fever-reducing herb tea by defiantly sending it upward.

He leans over the edge of the bed just as the liquid bursts from his mouth to splash onto the hard floor and d'Artagnan's boots. Aramis instantly feels terrible—not just because of the illness wreaking havoc on his body—but because he didn't have time to warn d'Artagnan before emptying his stomach.

"Damn, not my boots again." d'Artagnan groaned. "Sorry, it's okay," he apologized. "I know you didn't mean it and I don't mind cleaning it up. Well, I do mind cleaning it up, but only because you can't help it." He flashed his boyish smile at Aramis.

Aramis managed a small chuckle but was assailed with a savage fit of coughing, leaving him curled into himself from the pain.

d'Artagnan grasped a hand, "I've got you, 'Mis, hold onto me." He had to clench his teeth together to suppress the yelp of pain as Aramis squeezed his hand so tight he thought the bones might break.

Aramis clung tightly to the proffered hand, squeezing it as though it would help alleviate the pain pulsing through his body. "God, it hurts!" The medic cried out.

"Shh. . . I know it hurts. Breathe through the pain, Aramis. Breath with me, in. . . and out. . . and in. . ." d'Artagnan coached, just like when Aramis had coached Athos. "You're a good teacher, Aramis. I learn a lot just from watching you."