#the world needs so much more historic snz fic

[groundcontrol21]

A Little Help from My Friend (M, Musketeers)

So the hindbrain wrote this one. CW for: inducing, contagion, mess, stuffy-talk, character with the kink, and absolute desecration of characters from classic literature. Very glad Mr. Dumas is not around to see what I've done here. How far we've strayed from the light.

This is a marked departure from what I usually write and I honestly don't know what came over me. I'm very nervous about posting it for some reason (?) so please be kind.

“Hehh… uhhh…” For the umpteenth time that day, the sneeze which had been building and dragging Aramis to the precipice now abandoned him there, snuffly breaths hitching as he rubbed his hands over his face with a groan. “Snf!” His nose squelched as he rubbed at it, in one last vain attempt to coax the sneeze forward. He huffed miserably. “I’m so ill, Porthos.”

As attractive as it was to watch Aramis’s face go through the slow, agonizing permutations of readying to sneeze time and time again, Porthos felt terrible for him. “I know,” he said, biting at his lip. “I didn’t have it half as bad as you.”

Aramis coughed, the sound wet and congested. Porthos’s own cough hadn’t sounded that bad, had it? He thought back to when he’d been sick with this cold. The first couple days it hadn’t been bad enough to keep him from duty, so Aramis had merely hovered beside him like a worried nursemaid, urging him to drink often and offering his own waterskin when Porthos’s had run dry. Then when Treville had taken him off duty to prohibit him from sneezing on the royal court, Aramis had been with him in his every spare moment, pouring him tea and washing his sodden handkerchiefs. Really, Porthos supposed, he should have expected that just as soon as his own sniffling diminished, Aramis’s increased, as though the cold had just seeped from his head into his friend’s.

Aramis’s croak drew him back to the present. He flopped his arm around miserably on the bed. “I’m beginning to think I’ll ne-eh’hehhh—never be well again. Snf!”

Porthos couldn’t help but crack a small smile. “Well, that’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

Aramis shot upward, curled in on himself in what Porthos was sure would end in a sneeze, only for his nose to be left a dripping, flaring, unsatisfied mess as the sensation abandoned him once more. “HEHH...ohh.” He pressed the back of his hand hard against his nose with a set of marshy sniffles. “If I could only sneeze, the world would look so much brighter.” 

In more ways than one, Porthos thought, making a concerted effort to swallow down the fluttering feeling in his stomach. He felt bad enough that he was enjoying his friend’s misery in a way; he would be damned if Aramis found out about that fact. Whereas the day previous Aramis had been veritably unable to stop sneezing, each expulsion somehow leaving him sounding more congested than the last, today he was many times taunted but never satisfied. Yesterday had brought its own challenges when Porthos had come to check on him, namely the need to hide any untoward reactions to his friend’s desperately ill sneezes, but when Porthos had agreed with Aramis’s plea for the heavens to make him stop sneezing, it hadn’t been with this new misery in mind. Misery for Aramis, but also for Porthos, because these near-sneezes were hardly any better.

Aramis coughed again, rubbing at the swollen glands near his jaw. “Oh, and my throat,” he moaned with a harsh swallow. “And my ear.” He winced as the coughs continued and Porthos felt his heart split in two. No sooner did the coughs cease than did his breaths begin to hitch again–

“Hehhh…Ihhh…IHHHhh–”

–only to fade away into nothingness once more. Poor Aramis let out a hoarse, throaty groan, and that pitiful noise not only increased Porthos’s concern but also must have banished whatever sense he possessed, for he suddenly heard himself saying, “I think I know something that could help you with the sneezes.”

Luckily, Aramis’s eyes were closed as he pinched and rubbed at his leaking nose, for Porthos was sure he looked like the portrait of a mortified man. His hands shook slightly and he blinked; help him? Dear God, what was Porthos thinking, exposing himself like that? Worse, what if Aramis accepted? How could Porthos pretend to be normal in that?

A second passed in which Aramis said nothing, and so Porthos rushed in with a fumbling attempt to somehow explain his offer. “It’s something I’ve done–uhh, it’s a bit unconventional… but…” Good Lord, Porthos thought, he was merely digging himself deeper into this godforsaken hole.

“Porthos,” Aramis sighed, cracking open a tired eye at him, “at this point I would join the Cardinal’s Guard if it would make me feel better.”

Porthos gasped in mock scandal. “You don’t mean that.”

He was stalling, this much he knew, but he also knew he would rather be trampled by every horse in the garrison than continue this conversation, even though Porthos had been the fool who brought this whole predicament upon himself in the first place.

Aramis said nothing in reply, merely fished his handkerchief out from beneath the blankets and gave a liquid blow into it. He fixed his gaze balefully on Porthos when he finished, rubbing at his nose with the corner of the cloth in slow, slurpy circles. He looked so utterly miserable, his cheeks flushed, his nose chapped, his eyes bruised with purple, that Porthos knew instantly he would swallow every inch of his pride to make him feel better. 

“Sit up, then,” Porthos said, and said a quick prayer to nothing at all to help him, for surely this was out of God’s domain. “I have a feeling this might help you.”

Aramis grumbled and groaned but did as Porthos bid him, dragging himself into a seated position and swaddling the thickest quilt from his bedsheets around his shoulders. Meanwhile, Porthos went to the post at the wall where he had hung his own hat and plucked one of the feathers from it. He cared far less for his hat than Aramis did, and anyway he knew that Aramis was planning to give him a new one for his birthday that year, as the man could really be horrible at keeping secrets sometimes. As such, one feather now could be sacrificed to the cause.

Porthos returned to the bed and took a seat across from the bundled, shivering Aramis. His heavy-lidded eyes fell upon the feather which Porthos twisted nervously between his fingers and he grinned, even as Porthos wished the floor would swallow him whole. 

“Ahh, I see,” Aramis murmured, and Porthos nearly lept to the ceiling.

“You-you see?”

“Would you believe me if I said I’ve done this before, too?” 

At this, Porthos’s heart nearly stopped. He felt dizzy, felt his mouth drop open, unable to believe what he was hearing. Aramis continued. “With a feather, I mean. I used to know a woman who was quite, shall we say, fond of sneezes.” Porthos could already feel his cheeks burning, but then Aramis’s eyes took on a far-off sparkle, glimmering with pride, and the words which accompanied them were almost his undoing. 

“Especially mine, so she said.”

I’m inclined to agree with her, Porthos thought. His cheeks felt positively aflame now, and Porthos hardly knew how he managed to keep his voice from being a croak as he asked, “By fond do you mean…” He licked his lips, almost praying that Aramis would spare him completing his question. “Aroused?”

Aramis smiled. “I was trying to be discreet, but yes.” That same faraway look of pride gleamed in his eyes again, and Porthos wished he could slap the man for it. “Ah, I wonder if she’s found a better sneezer than I.” 

At once, Porthos’s mind supplied him with I doubt it, and wished he could slap Aramis for prompting that, too. To hide the tremble he felt rising in his voice, Porthos scoffed. “You,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Discreet.”

“I am very discreet, dear Porthos.” Aramis laid his hand across Porthos’s, the one which held the feather, and Porthos could feel the man’s fever even through his fingers. “Notice how I have not so much as disclosed her name.” Removing his hands, Aramis pressed his thumbs beneath his eyes, near the bridge of his nose and massaged himself lightly. He groaned softly at the contact. “Snf! Now, enough reminiscing. My nose is positively stopped full and it n-n-eh-needs your help. Snf!” 

If the Lord did exist, He must have been very displeased with Porthos, for He was surely testing every mite of Porthos’s resolve this day. Porthos raised the feather slowly, his hand trembling so badly he was worried he might jab Aramis in the eye with it. He was almost unable to look Aramis in the face but he forced himself to, trying to distance himself from the thought that he was really doing this, that he was really putting a feather to his friend’s blocked, sniffly, cold-ridden nose just as he’d always–

“I don’t think it’ll take much,” Aramis said thickly. “Snf! I’ve been hovering on the brink all day.” He caught Porthos by the wrist, stopping the feather a mere hairsbreadth from its target. “I might—snf!—I might sneeze on you.”

Porthos cursed the stirring he felt in his trousers. “That’s alright,” he managed, hoping he didn’t sound quite as breathless as he felt. He tried to don an air of uncertainty; it wouldn’t do to seem to be enjoying it so much, for God’s sake. “I-if it was my cold first, that means I shouldn’t catch it again, right?”

“I should hope not bc I—snf!— I feel miserable and I’d feel even worse if I made you this miserable too.” 

Porthos made a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat and worked to push aside any thought that wasn’t of concern for Aramis. The man was freely admitting to feeling miserable, for God’s sake. Porthos could help him, would help him, and would not let any silliness get in the way of that. If this is what it took to alleviate the smallest bit of his brother’s discomfort, so be it. Porthos could deal with himself later. 

Porthos brushed the feather delicately beneath the red, chapped skin of Aramis’s nose, and the man gave a full-body shiver at the contact, bundling deeper into the blanket tucked around his shoulders. He coughed lightly, his nose already beginning to twitch and flare, and Porthos knew the man had been right, it wouldn’t take much. He inserted the very tip into one of Aramis’s nostrils, gave it a slight wiggle, and that was all it took before the man’s breath snagged on a ragged inhale. 

“P-hhhooo’ohhh’ISHHHUHHH! Ihhh’KSSHHH! Ihh’HESHHHH!” 

The dam finally broken, Aramis sneezed and sneezed, collapsing forward with each expulsion. Porthos could see the wetness hang in the air between them, could feel it land on his cheeks. Mess trailed down in ropy tendrils from Aramis’s nose and he cupped his hand in a futile and retrograde act of containment. “Heh’KMMPPFF! Hehh’RMPFFF!”

His hands shook with the fervor of his movement, and he was not successful at keeping them plastered to his face. As they broke away they brought with them a strand of mucus, clinging to his fingers, but still Aramis was far from finished. “Heh’ZDSHHH’ooo! Ihh’GSHHH’ooo! Hehh’ihh’INGSHHHH!” He sniffled almost convulsively between each sneeze, desperate for air. Porthos felt a mist on his cheeks and for a moment he was paralyzed. 

Porthos wouldn’t have minded if the man kept releasing a fountainous spray upon him, but to preserve his friend’s dignity he cast around feverishly in the bedsheets. “Damn it, Aramis, where did you put the handkerchief?”

Aramis was pinching his reddened nose, his fingers glistening with the mess which had spilled onto them. Already his hair was wild and framed his face like an unholy halo. “Udder the pill-Pshhh’IEEWWW! Pillow? Heh’DSHHH!”

It was not under the pillow, nor tangled in the bedsheets, but had rather fallen to the floor halfway beneath the bed. Porthos scrambled to retrieve it as his friend released sneeze after sneeze of the wettest, fullest sort, as though they had been building in his head the whole day. They probably had been, the poor man. He started to cough, only for more sneezes to cut him off.

“Heh’RSHHH! Heh’TSHIEW! Oh, thagk you,” Aramis sighed as he hurriedly took the cloth from Porthos. Their hands brushed, and Porthos swallowed heavily at the dampness he felt on Aramis’s fingers. He watched as Aramis took a deep breath before blowing what must have been every bit of fluid in his nose into the handkerchief. Once he had finished, he folded the cloth, turned it over, and blew again, before seeking out a dry corner and nuzzling into it, massaging his nose between the folds and making stuffy noises of relief.  

He lowered the cloth for a mere moment before his eyes clouded over again. “I’ve got… sdeeze! Ahh’TSCHOO! HEHH’TSHHH!” He blew his nose again and coughed throatily into the handkerchief, before his breath crescendoed into one final, massive sneeze. “Ahh’hihh’HITSCHHOOO!”

Aramis buried his nose in the folds again and simply held it there as if to let gravity drain away the rest, shutting his eyes in the utterly exhausted aftermath of such a display. Porthos was grateful for the man’s distraction, for he was finding it increasingly difficult to sit still. 

“Oh, Porthos,” Aramis groaned in a positively sinful manner as he finally lowered the handkerchief. “Snf, snf! Snf!” The sneezing had clearly shifted the congestion in his head, but already he was beginning to sound all bunged up again. His cheeks and nose were flushed scarlet, his hair a tangled mess, his eyes streaming, and before Porthos could stop himself he squirmed and gave a minute groan of his own. 

Then, to Porthos’s horror, Aramis smiled at him. “Am I wrong in saying that you appear to be enjoying this quite as much as Ju—my friend?” 

At once, the room began to spin. Had he really been so obvious? Porthos’s breath quickened as thoughts and curses jumbled together in his mind, his hands beginning to tremble, his legs starting to bounce in agitation. He would have to leave and hope Aramis would forget this; he was not some oddball lover who–

Aramis’s hand was back on his thigh, stilling its motion. “Porthos, mon ami,” he said lowly, and Christ Almighty, every ounce of congestion was back weighing on his voice. Porthos could not look at him. “I will not judge you. I—heh’TSHIEW!” 

As if on reflex, Porthos found his head snap up at the sound, and he damned himself. Aramis had twisted away to sneeze at his shoulder, but he turned back to Porthos with a bleary sniffle. He smiled at him again, and though his eyes were tired, they held nothing but gentleness.  “What a man likes in bed is between him and the parties in it.”

Porthos could hardly believe what he was hearing, could hardly believe what had happened and what was continuing to happen. He spluttered, choking over thank you for not thinking I am a deviant, and I hope I haven’t made things odd between us, until all he could think to say was, “But I–we–we’re not in bed!”

Aramis gestured to the mattress on which they sat with a laugh. “In any case, I am glad someone is eh-enjoying my… my cold. Hhhh’KSHHHH’uhh!” The sneeze burst from him too quickly to be adequately covered by the handkerchief, and so Porthos saw a heap of wetness slide out from his nose before being sniffled back. “Snf! Guhhh… Because it certainly isn’t me.” 

Aramis gave his nose a haphazard swipe with the cloth. “We could do some more if you’d like. There’s still a lot—a lot…” Aramis trailed off as though forgetting his train of thought, but the true reason for the pause became apparent when his breath gave an almighty hitch and his eyes flickered shut. “Hhhh’RSHHHH!” He sniffled thickly and gave a rueful little smile. “A lot left in there.”

Warmth pulled at the base of Porthos’s belly, but he dared not hope. “Are you sure?”

“After a day of being clogged up with no respite, sneezing like that was nothing short of divine.” 

You can say that again, my friend. Porthos smiled, anticipation thrumming in his veins as he picked up the feather once more, the realization washing over him that he would get to see that divine display again, that he would be able to watch his friend’s beautiful sneezes crash forth and not need to look away for fear or propriety’s sake. It was dizzying, and Porthos felt as though he might burst with it. 

Again, Aramis took him by the wrist. His eyes were alight, but serious. “Tell me how to make this more pleasurable for you.”

Porthos must have been dreaming. “P-Pardon me?”

“My l-friend, she liked it when I tried not to sneeze after she’d tickled me.” 

Porthos’s voice, when he found it, was naught more than a rough whisper. “I—uh—I’d like that too.” If he ever found this woman, he would fall at her feet and kiss them. 

“Noted,” Aramis said with a grin. “Snf!” He slid a knuckle beneath his nose. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold back given how congested I am, but on my honor as a Musketeer I will try.” He patted his breast proudly, and Porthos thought he might love the man for it. “What else?”

And if Porthos thought he loved the man before, he was surely infatuated by that comment. What else, the man asks? As if this weren’t already everything and more. The heady thrumming pulsated in his ears, and he could hardly feel his lips as they moved. “Tell me how you feel.”

Aramis blinked at him blankly, and for a moment Porthos feared all was lost. Stuttering, he pushed ahead. “Y-your symptoms. How miserable you feel.”

“Oh, you like it when I complain?” Aramis flashed him a sparkling, devilish grin, and in that instant Porthos saw what every woman must see in him. “You are in luck, dear Porthos, because I feel awful.” He frowned, shaping his features into a dramatic pout. “Every part of me feels run-down and achy—“

Porthos danced the feather ever so lightly across the man’s septum, marveling at how much it quivered at such slight contact. 

“Snf! And sh-shivery. Snf! Like I have a-a f-fehhh… a fever.” 

Porthos pressed his hand gently to Aramis’s warm forehead, his fingers stroking back the sweat-damp hair. “I think you do, poor Aramis.” 

“Poor me, indeed!” Aramis cried hoarsely, breaking off into a few sharp coughs directed at his shoulder. Porthos’s fingers slid to Aramis’s jaw and he guided the man’s face back to him. Porthos ran the feather against his septum again. Aramis’s entire face twitched, but he soldiered on. 

“My throat… my…” His expression went lax as the feather ghosted against his skin and his eyes fluttered to half mast. He gripped Porthos’s thigh, his fingers flexing and relaxing, his nails digging into the flesh. “Oh, I have to sn-sneeze. Hehhh—“

Were it not for the iron grip of his friend’s hand, Porthos felt as though he might float away into the ether. “Keep holding on,” he croaked, sounding almost as wretched as Aramis. “Keep talking.” 

Aramis doggedly blinked away the tears which had begun to form in his eyes. “Oh, snf!” His nose was red, chapped, and quivering, and yet Porthos taunted it more with the feather. Aramis squirmed. “My throat feels like I’ve choked on my sword. My ear feels hot and full. Snf! Hehhh…. Oh, and my nose. Snf! How is it possible for it to be so stuffed up and… and so runny… HEHhhh… Snf! At the same time?” 

And indeed, Porthos could see the evidence of such a predicament, a line of mucus dripping from one of Aramis’s nostrils no matter how forcefully his nose twitched and sniffled. It wouldn’t be long now, and so Porthos made the final gesture, inserting the feather into the snotty nostril inch by inch with a tantalizing slowness. Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and moaned, his breath already beginning to hitch. Porthos wiggled it a couple times and then withdrew it at the same pace, drawing with it a thick rope of slime. 

“Ohhhh…” Aramis was trembling, his breath shaking as he fought against his body’s urge with every ounce of strength. But he was no match, this Porthos could tell; he was going to lose this battle, and lose it quickly. 

“I’b really…hehhh’EHHH...huhhhh—Snf, snf!” His voice was rapidly taking on a breathier and breathier quality with each word he spoke, and Porthos’s heart raced. “Really dot feelig—HESHHHOO! Ihh’TSSCHHH! Uhh… I’b dot feelig well at all, Porthos. Heh’TSHIEWWW! Oh…”

They were both done for now, Aramis lost in a violent haze of sneezes, even more vigorous now than the first, and Porthos swirling in his own private ecstasy. “Heh’ZDSHHH! KSHHH’uhh! Hehh…Ihhh..HEHISHHH! Hhhh’ITSCHHH! Snf! Huh’TSHHHH’ooo! Nggghhh…”

Aramis rubbed at his nose with the handkerchief as he sniffled and sneezed, letting it fall to the side with a sigh of irritation upon finding the cloth utterly soaked. Mucus dribbled down his lips no matter how many times he sniffled, and the sharp inhalations made him cough. 

“Let it all out,” Porthos rasped, “you’ll feel better.”

“I deed–de-heh’HESHHH’oo! Snf! Oh, Porthos… Heh’KSHHHIEW! Snf, snf! A haddkerchief–snf–please! Ahh’TSHCHH!” It was true, Aramis’s face was a mess of fluid from his eyes to his chin. Porthos dug out a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and passed it to Aramis, before flopping back against the bed and tending to himself as Aramis blew and blew. All the while, Porthos lay on his back, panting, staring at the ceiling as visions of what he had just seen danced across his view. 

“Ugh, I’b exhausted,” Aramis said upon finishing, before dropping abruptly onto Porthos’s chest, pillowing his head against his breast and curling up beside him. Porthos stroked the top of the man’s head, gratified when the man let out a hoarse and congested, yet content hum at the contact. He pressed a long kiss to the hot skin of Aramis’s forehead, suffusing it with the thank yous and I love yous and my heart breaks when you aren’t feeling wells that he could not put into words. Aramis turned and pressed his nose into Porthos’s shirt, drawing a long breath in before muffling his next sneeze into the fabric, though some still spilled over onto Porthos’s exposed skin where the shirt came undone at his chest.  “Ehh’KMPFFF! Oh…” He sniffled and laid his head back down on Porthos’s chest, before murmuring tiredly, “You’d best hope you can’t catch this again.”

#groundcontrol's sin #my writing #snzfic #mess #inducing #coldfic #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #what's a musketeer feather for if not this huh? #sick ara/mis

[mimikusu]

3, 5 for whoever you feel like, and 9? :)

3. what are two skills you admire in other writers? what’s a skill you find personally irrelevant?

I think this has been said before by @sickromancer, but one definitely is language. Though for me, it's less the inability of using english in a proper way, but the fact, that being able to communicate about abstract matters using language is something so human and I think it's so fascinating. There seems to be the need to compete. Competition needs rules and the ones able to use them best will always shine the brightest... something like that. So I really admire people with a keen sense of what words to use in what context - with a large amount of adjectives and verbs to use and who are able to paint a picture.

To me, the writing I like is less like a movie and more like a drawing, a piece of art... it contains a lot of information on how the scenery looks, how people behave and what their motivations are... I don't care so much about what they do, but more about the how and why...

And the second... If a writer is able to drag me into the emotional world of their character, that really gets me... I struggle with emotions most of the time, so I always need them explained. So...

And I don't think any skill is irrelevant! If someone is really good at something and it shows, it will always be a good read.

5. what do you think fandom gets wrong about this character? if they’re an original character, what do you think a large fandom would get wrong?

That one is tricky, because I'm really bad at perceiving things through the eyes of others. So I might rather answer that one by telling you what I'm afraid of rather than I think what people actually would get wrong.

I'm actually afraid about Simon getting whumped. Maybe that sounds a little weird, but I think he's someone who's always very keen about being independend and perceived that way. He might be opening up a little with Nikolai, but still, until he's delirious or something he would never let him do more than get him a cup of tea. And I like him for being so stubborn, for not letting anyone close, not wanting to be loved. And if someone would change that... I don't know.

The thing I love most about Nikolai is all the drama, his affection and the ability to give Simon the space he needs to feel comfortable. I think he might be missunderstood for being a crybaby, because of all the whining, but he's actually just trying to cover up for the fact that he's awfully afraid of being alone.

9. what are some settings you wish you saw more often - temporal, geographical, social? what about character types or dynamics?

@groundcontrol21 and @empresskaze have said it before and I totally agree with them: there is not enough non-romantic snz! I'm a bit of a fray and therefore I'm not so much into long term stories and tenderness.

I would love to read more of either platonic friendship or shortlived desire.

Also I'm a total sucker for the romeo-and-juliett-cliche of a love that just can not be and therefore will not be pursued. So it's only desire and wanting but never getting to actually be able to show it in public and eventually have to break up... or one loves the other, but the other is not feeling as deeply for them in return.

For the temporal and geographical: I love everyone's historic fics! But I'm also a sci-fi nerd and I would love to see more space, astronauts and the good old eastern sci-fi cliche of the world being a great communist community at peace. And maybe it's my trouble with emotion, but I love AI characters... yes.

#thanks so much for asking these!! and sorry it got so long #i'll always ramble if one would let me...T^T #asks

[groundcontrol21]

Ohhh. It's so hard to pick! I love all of these! But I think I'm going to go with Dec 14th: an "unfortunate"gift. 😉😉

It's no longer December 14th, but here is December 14th's prompt, made extra long to compensate for the wait :) Merry Christmas to the wonderful and patient @sniction-fiction, and to the rest of those who celebrate.

In the distance, and above the frigid howl of the wind, the bells of Saint Sulpice chimed a quarter past the hour. D’Artagnan looked to his friends who were gathered at the table with him, still awaiting the fourth friend whose idea it had been to gather at Athos’s apartment before the Christmas feast and exchange gifts. Porthos had taken to tapping the table with his knuckles. Athos was draining the dregs from his third cup of wine. 

Porthos frowned, sparing a glance out the wintry window. “He’s fifteen minutes late.”

“The weather probably delayed him this morning,” Athos said drily, pouring himself more wine. “Where was it this year, Tours?”

“Amiens.” Porthos shook his head. “I think. Or maybe Angers. I can hardly keep track of his ladies.”

“It’s a wonder he can.” D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “I’d need a roster to help me remember.”

“I think Aramis could use one,” Porthos laughed. “Free up a bit of space in that little head of his.” Porthos tapped at his own skull for emphasis, before turning and wagging that same finger with gusto at the young Gascon. “Hey, maybe that should be your present to him next year. A neat little accounting book, where he can keep a list of his mistresses. Names in one column, gifts they give him in the other.”

Athos hummed in bemused approval, and D’Artagnan snorted. “Is it really that bad?”

Athos and Porthos shared a long, knowing look, before Athos cleared his throat. “I think his record is the year he came home from the newly widowed Lady D’Bouconvilier’s country estate with another horse to carry all his gifts.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes went as wide as saucers and Porthos laughed. “Or when he came home from Rouen with a big bottle of Persian perfume swaddled to his chest–I thought he’d come home with a son!”

D’Artagnan guffawed and listened with rapt intent as Porthos and Athos took turns relaying the details of Aramis’s other Christmas tradition besides the Mass: the week prior to the holiday he spent making a tour of his wealthiest paramours from the year. From the sounds of it, Aramis had hardly bought himself anything in his life; item after item which D’Artagnan had seen the man possess turned out to be gifts, from the saddle on his horse to the knife he used to trim his beard. Porthos was just about to tell the story behind a pair of braes when the door handle turned at last and Aramis slipped inside, shivering in his overcoat and clutching a satchel.

“Well, speak of the Devil, here he comes,” Porthos cried. “What was the gift from the mistress this year, eh?”

Aramis closed the door behind him wordlessly. He dropped the satchel from his shoulder so abruptly that it collided with the floor with a resounding thump that had a note of precarious breakability. For a moment, it seemed as though he had not heard the question directed at him, but the real reason for his silence became apparent when, in one swift and well-honed gesture, he whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his face. “Heh’ETCHHH!” 

Aramis lowered the handkerchief just enough to give his reply. “A cold,” he croaked bitterly, though of course such a resounding sneeze had been answer enough in its own right. “She claimed to be well but… Heh’Heh’KSHHHH!” The handkerchief was back in place, his speech muffled into the folds. “Clearly that was–EHhh’KMPSSHH! Ugh, God.” 

With a miserable sniffle and a wipe, Aramis tucked the handkerchief back away. He dragged a chair back from the table a bit, until its back was flush with the wall, and plopped unceremoniously into it. He slumped, tipping his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes for a long blink. He waved his hand. “Don’t come too close, this isn’t one of the gifts I want to give to you.”

“Rotten gift,” Porthos said, brow furrowed, voice full of gruff sympathy. “Did she give you anything else?”

Aramis blinked his eyes back open. “A lovely tortoiseshell hair comb but–Snf!” He rubbed at his rapidly reddening nose with the back of his knuckles, his nostrils glistening and twitching. “This is the gift which is most memorable. Ihhh’KRSHHHH’uhh!” Aramis dipped forward into his cupped hands, lingering in such a position for a silent, sniffling moment before straightening again. He rubbed at his throat.

 “Ow,” he pronounced clearly. “And which I’m least grateful for.”

Athos poured him a cupful of wine, and Aramis took it gratefully, downing it all in one go with a pronounced wince and a cough. They spoke a bit with Aramis about his travels, asking after the food (lovely), the ride (easy), the weather (horrid), before Aramis shook his head with an airy cough. 

“But I’ve wasted enough time with my tardiness!” he cried, and retrieved his satchel. “Let us not waste any more with such idle chatter. Let us exchange our gifts, now four of us instead of three.”

D’Artagnan smiled, feeling his own bag at the floor between his feet. “Who should go first?”

Athos inclined his head as he set down his cup. “How about Aramis, since he’s already received a gift?”

Aramis flashed a smirk at him. “Funny.” His voice was so occluded he could not help a rather unseemly throat clearing and snuffle combination, but still Aramis brought the satchel to his lap and begin to sift through its contents. His downward gaze created a veritable flood out of his already runny nose, and he sniffled on each breath as he considered what was in the satchel carefully, deliberation over whose gift to give first written clearly across his twitching features. 

At last, he reached decisively into the pouch, but had to abort the action almost as soon as he had done it, for a massive sneeze came over him. The hand came up to hurriedly cup over his nose. “Hh’TSCHHH!“ Hehh’ISHshhh! Oh, excuse me,” he said, voice all congestion, as he pinched and wiped away at his nose. He looked down at his fingers, and blushed. “Could I trouble one of you for a handkerchief? This cold is all in my nose.”

His friends had seen the mess upon his hands as clearly as he, and so D’Artagnan, perhaps just as eager as Aramis to be rid of such a sight, was up and offering his own handkerchief to the man in an instant. “Here.”

“Thank you,” Aramis said, and cleaned up his hand as much as his face. 

“Please, keep it,” D’Artagnan said forcefully as he took his seat again. “Merry Christmas.”

Aramis gave a grateful nod as he buried his nose into it and gave a blow so soggy and forceful that D’Artagnan winced. “Well, since our Gascon has so generously given me a gift already,” Aramis said with a smile, giving the handkerchief a demonstrative wave. “I will start with him.”

He reached into the satchel, pulled out a pair of black leather gloves lined with fur, and leaned forward to pass them to D’Artagnan. “To preserve the warmth of your fragile, Gascon hands against the cruelty of the Paris wind.”

D’Artagnan gaped a bit as he took the gift from his friend, and his mouth dropped open further as he tugged the snug leather over his fingers. He flexed and clenched his fist, examining his gloved hand from all angles. “They fit perfectly, Aramis,” he said in a hushed voice. “How did you know–”

Aramis grinned cheekily. “How soon you forget just how many times I had to reposition those very hands on a musket.”

D’Artagnan blushed crimson at the reminder of his green incompetence. “Thank you,” he said after another long moment spent gazing at the leather. “This is truly a thoughtful gift, my friend.”

“Now I better not hear you complaining of the cold ever again,” Porthos said, cupping his hands over his mouth and blowing into them obnoxiously loudly, a mimic of D’Artagnan’s chosen method of warming and passive-aggressive complaint whenever the wind had the slightest nip to it. D’Artagnan removed one of the gloves and swatted Porthos on the shoulder with it. 

“Careful!” Aramis admonished playfully. “Perhaps you won’t be so quick to violence against your friend once you see what I’ve gotten him.”

This time, Aramis produced a small knife in a delicately patterned wooden casing from the satchel, and held it in an outstretched arm. “Take it, Porthos, I have to–” The precarious waver in Aramis’s breath left no ambiguity to his meaning, and so Porthos quickly snatched the item from him. Aramis snapped forward, tucking his chin to his chest and involuntarily squeezing the satchel close. “HETCHHH!” 

He dug out the handkerchief again and held it hovering just inches away from his quivering, dripping nose as his breath hitched in preparation for another. “Ihhh… Oh…Snf!” Aramis teetered a moment on the precipice. His eyes, glazed and misty, looked nowhere in particular as they fluttered shut once more. “IHHH’KSHHH’uhhh!”

Porthos unsheathed the knife from its casing, and turned it over in his hands, recognizing at once that it was a woodworking knife. It felt instantly more comfortable in his grasp as he mimicked a whittling motion than did his dagger. 

“It’s beautiful,” Porthos murmured. “Thank you, mon ami.”

“So that you no longer have to sully the blade of your dagger when boredom strikes on a mission.” As he spoke, Aramis rubbed his nose with the handkerchief, making slow and squelchy circles, trying to draw out the remaining tickle. “Hehhh’ISHHH’oo!” The sneeze which he had coaxed forth was harsh and wet, leaving moisture behind not only beneath his nose but also his eyes. Aramis huffed an annoyed laugh and scrubbed at his eyes and his nose a couple times with the handkerchief. “Ugh, I’mb leaking.”

The three friends shared a look while the fourth cleaned himself up, but nothing more was said on the matter. Aramis let the handkerchief fall into a sad, sodden bundle on his lap while he retrieved the last item from his satchel. The glass bottle had been the source of the clatter when the bag had hit the floor earlier, but fortunately the wine was undamaged.

“And for Athos.” 

Athos took the bottle reverently, his eyes widening as he realized its contents cost about ten times the amount he usually spent on his vice. “Aramis, this is… expensive.”

Aramis smiled, even as his nose dripped. “Your skills of appraisal are astute as always.”

Athos shook his head. “No, Aramis, I mean it, this is–”

“Heh’KSHHHH’oo! Ehhh’HISHHH!” Aramis gave a clogged laugh as he squeezed his nose between two folds of the handkerchief to wipe it. “See? Snf! Even my nose has no patience for your foolish protestations.”

“Then, I see no other option but to open it and share it with friends.”

Athos uncorked the bottle and poured from it into each of their cups, mistakenly dribbling a bit on the table near where D’Artagnan’s gloves lay. Horrified at their proximity to destruction, D’Artagnan snatched the gloves away and squawked at Athos, who rallied with a calm, choice set of words of his own. Porthos laughed as they squibbled and Aramis, for his part, merely slumped a bit in his chair, unnoticed. 

Porthos opened his mouth to quip something at Aramis, only to find the man had leaned his head back against the wall, screwing his eyes shut and pinching at the bridge of his nose. When Aramis seemed about to stay that way indefinitely, Porthos scooted his chair around the table, closer to his friend. Aramis gave no indication he had heard the move. Porthos frowned and nudged him with an elbow. “Hey, are you feeling alright?” 

Aramis lowered his hand and blinked, a bit heavy and startled as though he’d forgotten where he was. “Yes, I’ve…” He blew out a sigh, and even that sounded stopped to the brim with congestion. “I’ve just got this terrible headache.”

Porthos’s frown deepened. “Just now?”

Aramis’s gaze flicked from friend to friend, as they were all watching him intently now. He sighed again, finishing with a tickly cough. “All day,” he admitted quietly. “It’s only been getting worse.”

“Why don’t you go lie down?” Athos said, voice as gentle as it was firm. “We will fetch you before Reveillon.”

Between the tenderness in his ordinarily stoic friend’s voice and the incessant pounding in his own head, there was little room for resistance to such a sound suggestion, and so Aramis rose gingerly, feeling his muscles sore from the cold, his cold, and all the riding he had done. He gathered his satchel on his shoulder and began to shuffle toward the door, when Athos’s voice stopped him. 

“Where are you going?”

Aramis fixed him with a bewildered expression. “To go lie down?”

Athos huffed, as close to a laugh as anything he ever did. “Surely your brain is not so addled with cold that you don’t remember my bedchamber is that way?” He pointed in the opposite direction. 

Aramis blinked as Athos’s intention broke through the mist in his brain. “Your bed… Athos, no.” He sniffled and coughed. “Not with a cold like this.”

“Well,” Athos said, reclining disinterestedly in his chair, “if you prefer to trudge all the way back to your apartments in the biting wind, I shan’t stop you.”

Aramis chewed at his chapped lip. “Still, I hate the thought that I could pass this along… I hate the thought of giving you such an unfortunate gift. Any of you.”

“We’ve all gotten our fair share of unfortunate gifts.” Porthos chuckled, shaking his head. “Remember when Athos gave me a book before I could read?”

Athos’s cheeks blushed the faintest of pinks, but his eyes narrowed at Porthos. “Remember when you gave Aramis what you were convinced was lavender oil, but which made his hands red and blistered and itchy for weeks?”

D’Artagnan shrugged and added, “My cousin gave me a collar for a dog I didn’t even have.”

Aramis gave a congested, but happy-sounding laugh, and coughed wetly into the handkerchief. He smiled tenderly at his friends, who were laughing too, but before he could add to the conversation, a sneeze stole his breath, sending him hitching into the sodden handkerchief. “Hhhh’ehhh’EHHDSKHH!”

“Go lie down, my friend,” Athos said, and Aramis nodded through his snuffling. He raised his hand and the handkerchief it held in a haphazard farewell before crumpling back into it as he shuffled away to Athos’s bedchamber. “Heh’RSHHH!”

The trio who remained turned their gifts over in their hands, discussing them all in subdued marvel. When enough time had passed that the three friends were sure the fourth had fallen asleep, they assembled a tray to leave on his bedside table for when he woke. Sure enough, the congested snores which filled the bedchamber advertised that they had been correct in their assessment, and so they shuffled quietly in, depositing their gifts beside their sleeping friend, bundled beneath the bedcovers. They had left him two handkerchiefs–Athos’s and Porthos’s sacrificed to the cause now just as surely as D’Artagnan’s–as well as a mug of tea and some mint paste Athos had found in his cupboard. They were unconventional gifts for Christmas, to be sure, and likely not exactly what Aramis envisioned himself in want of, but that was no matter. There would be time for more exchanging of gifts when Aramis was well again. 

#answered asks #december prompt fill #christmas sickfic #sick ara/mis #more muskie snz!!! #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #snz fic #my writing

[groundcontrol21]

Best Laid Plans (M, Musketeers)

It’s my birthday �� and I'm back(-ish)! It’s honestly a miracle that I made it here to 22, so to celebrate I gave one of my homies a birthday and another a cold... Also consider this my strange way of giving back to all the people here who helped me reach another birthday, I love you all

Spring had come, bringing with it warmer sunshine and, of course, the need to plan a suitable celebration for Porthos’s birthday. As he did every year, Aramis spearheaded the planning, all but refusing any help from Athos or D’Artagnan to take some of the stress off him because it needed to be perfect. In the weeks leading up to the date, Aramis devised lists of wines for Athos to fetch, visited widow after widow to procure funds, passed days at the market spending those funds on food and a worthy gift for Porthos. Even Athos could not deny Aramis had outdone himself this year. It was halfway expected, then, that when the day of the festivities came, Athos found the mastermind behind them tucked away in a corner, behind a wooden pole, sneezing viciously enough to bring down half the garrison.

“You’ve chosen the perfect day to catch a cold, haven’t you?”

Aramis regarded him through bleary, half-lidded eyes, keeping the handkerchief plastered to his nose as he gave a shuddering inhale which rocked through his entire body, before exploding with another sneeze. “Heh’CHMPFFFF!” 

Athos pressed his fingers against his friend’s forehead, sighing when he found it radiating a sickly heat. “Go back to bed, Aramis,” he said firmly. “The entire event is planned to completion thanks to you. It need only begin.”

Aramis stuffed the balled up cloth back into his sleeve and gave a snort of indignation. The poor man was so congested that the action made his nose drip, a fact which Athos did his best not to focus on. “I will not miss Porthos’s birthday!”

The desire, familiar at this point, to throttle and coddle Aramis in equal measure, overtook Athos in a wave. “Do you think Porthos will abide you making yourself more ill on his behalf?”

Aramis’s speech took on a breathy quality, his eyelids beginning to flutter, but valiantly (or stupidly), he forged ahead. “He–he doesn’t have to know I’b ill–Heh’KSSHH!”

Athos clucked his tongue as Aramis fished out his handkerchief again to tend to his unruly nose. “And how exactly are you planning to keep Porthos from noticing when you keep doing that?”

“I won’t sneeze,” Aramis said resolutely. “You’ll find I have very good control over—”

Athos merely looked on mildly as a sneeze overtook Aramis mid sentence, rattling the man so thoroughly he had to throw his arm out against a pole to keep his balance. “Ihh’RSHHHH! Snf! Snf!” He blinked a couple times in the aftermath, glassy-eyed like a startled animal, and shook his head. 

“So I’ll muffle them. That much I can—IHH’TSCHHH!” 

Athos continued to stare at his friend wordlessly, as the sound of the explosion veritably echoed throughout half of Paris. 

“Ugh, damn you,” Aramis growled into his handkerchief, as though it were Athos who personally implanted the cold within his head. He mopped at his drippy nose. “I’ll think of something.”

*****************

The something that Aramis thought of was apparently to hover at the walls, sick and sneezing, while the rest of the garrison revelled, and hope for the best. It was a testament to how much fun, to put it politely, that Porthos and D’Artagnan had already had at a tavern prior to joining the Musketeers’ celebration that Porthos allowed himself to be swept up in the games and the gambling without noticing Aramis’s absence too keenly. He accepted Athos’s assertion that he was chatting with one of the new recruits, and didn’t even seem to notice that Aramis was, in fact, huddled alone with his drink.

Athos took his own cup and sought out the man. The light from the garrison torches was weak, but it was more than enough to illuminate how wretched the marksman looked. He slumped against the wall, cradling his drink to his chest with an absent, open-mouthed expression, as though he didn’t quite realize he was meant to be drinking from his cup. As Athos approached, he could hear the stuffed-up puffs of air tumble in and out from his chapped lips. 

“How are you feeling?” Athos asked lowly, to avoid startling the man. 

Aramis’s only response was to release the most waterlogged sneeze that Athos had ever heard into his crumpled handkerchief. “Hihhh’TSCHHH’uhh! Snf!” Keeping the handkerchief over his nose and mouth, he ran through a series of miserable noises that could have been coughs, sniffles, blows, or some combination of the three.

The sound had Athos reaching immediately for the man’s forehead, and he physically cringed when he felt the clammy heat roiling off it. He rolled his eyes and hissed. “Jesus Christ, Aramis.”

Aramis turned his eyes slowly on him, heavy and half-lidded as though drunk. “I’ll manage.” He was trembling with poorly concealed shivers.

Athos could hardly understand the man’s voice, so pitched and wrecked it was with soreness and congestion. “You are lucky Porthos arrived here already too drunk to notice you,” he said sharply. “You look horrid.”

Aramis cracked a poor imitation of his usual sunny smile, but it only looked wan and drawn against the pallor of his skin, the feverish flush of his cheeks. “Flattery will–” he began only for his voice to crack and plunge him into a fit of scraping, chesty coughs. He splayed his palm flat over his breast as he hacked, and Athos could not help but reach out a hand to steady him.

“Spare me the ordeal of listening to you, and just be quiet for once, would you?” The hand he placed on Aramis’s shoulder belied the bite to Athos’s words. He waited until the coughs subsided, until Aramis had slaked the worst of his sore throat with a bit from his waterskin, before holding out his own pristine handkerchief to Aramis. White, like a peace offering. 

“And take this. I can tell you’ll need it.” 

Aramis recognized the cloth for what it was, and gave Athos a grateful nod. For all of a moment Athos regarded his friend, pity swirling in his chest, but then Aramis emptied what sounded like half the Seine into Athos’s handkerchief and Athos resisted the urge to gag.

“Are you certain this is merely a cold?”

Aramis said nothing, but Athos could tell he was hiding behind the handkerchief in lieu of answering. He kicked Aramis’s ankle gently. “Aramis?”

But instead of answering Athos’s question (which was answer enough), Aramis merely tucked away the handkerchief and regarded Athos desperately, his eyes bright. “Please don’t tell Porthos,” he pleaded, almost whining. “Let him enjoy this night.”

Athos heaved a long sigh, long enough for Aramis to hear every note of dissatisfaction and chastisement within it, lest the man think Athos at all endorsed this foolishness. “I won’t tell him–”

Aramis breathed out, “Thank you.”

“--but I won’t hide this from him either.”

************

Aramis supposed that was about as good of a promise as he would get out of Athos, and so he resolved to take all the hiding onto himself. It was easier than expected to merely slink off to the side, sit down and huddle on a stoop, and watch absently as his fellow Musketeers cheered and drank and gambled. Aramis leaned his head against a railing, the noise of it all doing nothing to dispel the ache. 

Even this, though, slouching tucked away in a corner, was sapping more energy from Aramis than he cared to admit. There was no way to deny the feverish shivers which coursed through him, leaving his muscles sore and achy. He had abandoned all attempts to breathe through his nose hours ago, and each cursedly frequent sneeze not only grated his raw throat but doubled the bounding through his congested head. He was really quite sick, Aramis could tell, and he knew he’d be spending the next few days laid up in bed in recompense for his being upright now. But he didn’t mind; all he had to do was make it through this night, for Porthos, and then he could rest and lie down beneath a bundle of blankets and give into the way his body ached at the mere thought of standing for another minute–

“Aramis?”

“Porthos!” Aramis cried, jolting upright at the approach of his friend. He did not trust himself to stand without swaying or worse, but he did his best to rearrange his posture into something straighter and more befitting of a healthy man. Cursing inwardly, he stuffed his (or rather, Athos’s) handkerchief into his pocket and hoped Porthos hadn’t seen it. 

“What’s wrong?” Porthos said worriedly, stooping to take a seat beside Aramis. His movements were slightly sluggish with drink, but every inch of him radiated concern all the same. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Ain’t like you not to be out and about.”

Aramis did his best to smile as usual. “I’m just a bit–” His voice crackled and a few coughs, far more sick-sounding than he’d have liked, escaped before he could swallow them down. “--tired, is all,” he forced himself to finish, to his undoing, for perhaps if he had stopped speaking the few coughs would not have turned into a fit. As it was, though, the effort of speaking grated against his raw throat and left him coughing and coughing, and all Aramis could pray was that Porthos was too drunk to notice their sickly rasp. 

Aramis had no such luck, for he had scarcely caught his breath again when he was blinking at the cool feel of Porthos’s palm against his forehead. “You’re sick,”Porthos said, frowning. His hand moved to the side of Aramis’s neck, near his jaw, fingers pressing against the sore, swollen glands there, and his frown deepened. Aramis fought to keep his eyes from slipping closed at the warmth of his brother’s touch. 

“Aramis, why didn’t you tell me?”

Porthos sounded devastated, his voice so stricken, so weighed down with guilt it dragged, and Aramis could scarcely bear such a thing. “Because it’s nothing, really!” he said hurriedly, for it looked as though Porthos might cry. But Aramis’s body betrayed him with a sudden, sharp inhale. “Heh’KSHHHHH! Hhh’TSHIEWW! Snf! Ihh’HITSHHH!” 

He brushed a finger beneath his nose. “Just a touch of a cold,” he said soggily, steadfastly resisting the urge to reacquaint himself with the handkerchief though he desperately needed to. Porthos watched him, face twitching with brewing skepticism and anger. Aramis attempted to reassure him. “I’ll be alright with a bit of sleep.”

Porthos exhaled noisily. “So why don’t you go try to get some?” He reached out again and traced his thumb gently across the circles, dark as bruises, beneath Aramis’s eyes. “You look exhausted.” 

Aramis was beyond exhausted, and the soft touch of his brother was more soothing on his swollen, aching head than any medicine could be, and yet still Aramis did his best to keep his eyes from drifting shut, to prevent himself from leaning into those comforting fingers too much. 

Then Porthos whispered, “Please?” and Aramis could hold out no longer. 

“Alright, dear friend,” he sighed, letting his eyes fall closed for a moment, feeling himself slump against Porthos. “You make a convincing case.”

At this, Porthos helped Aramis to his feet; or rather, the two Musketeers helped each other, for while Aramis swayed from fatigue and fever, Porthos was equally unsteady with drink. Even so, he clasped Aramis’s shoulder firmly and vowed, “I’ll come check on you in a bit.” 

But as Aramis turned to go, he saw the way Porthos stumbled briefly back toward the main celebration before righting himself. 

“You’re half-drunk already!” Aramis called, swallowing down a cough. “Please, Porthos. Don’t worry yourself over me.” Porthos opened his mouth to retort but Aramis shook his head. “Just enjoy your celebration. Show D’Artagnan the finer points of how a Musketeer readies a melon to eat.”

He tapped his pistol to show Porthos his meaning, and the man smiled, even as his brow was still ruffled with skepticism. Once more, Aramis bid him farewell and headed back to his room, hoping that a few rounds of inebriated target shooting with the young Gascon would take Porthos’s mind off Aramis for the rest of the night. He deserved nothing less, after all.

*******************

Aramis was tucked up at his table, a blanket round his shoulders and a washcloth covering his head like a tent, keeping in the steam from the bowl he had filled with boiling water and a few sprigs of mint. He had lost track of just how long he had spent there, absolutely spent and dripping from his harsh and desperate fits of sneezing, but relishing in his slightly increased capacity for breathing, when he heard his door click open and shut.

“Oh, Aramis. You’re really sick, aren’t you?”

“Porthos?” Dazedly, Aramis lifted his head from the bowl, lifting the corners of the washcloth to peer at his friend, who hovered in the doorway. “I thought I told you–Ihh’KSHHHH’uhhh!” 

Aramis sniffled liquidly, feeling a mess run from his nose to his chin. The steam was still doing its job, no doubt. “Heh’KSHHHH!” He fumbled to retrieve the handkerchief from the table and mop himself up with it. 

Porthos made a wounded noise. “And I thought I told you to get some sleep.” The floorboards creaked and groaned, until Aramis looked up again to find Porthos’s face mere inches from his. The steam had loosened things up just enough that Aramis could smell a bit of the alcohol on the man’s breath. Porthos looked at the bowl as though it had hurt him personally. “And yet here you are, so sick that you brought out the steam and you didn’t even tell me.”

“Porthos, it’s alright,” Aramis said, setting aside the handkerchief to clasp his brother’s hand. “I’m just a bit too congested to sleep, is all.” He put on a smile and gestured for Porthos to sit. “Tell me, how is the party? Did D’Artagnan have his melon lesson?” 

At this, Porthos grinned widely, and Aramis felt himself relax, even as he felt the heavy, aching congestion returning. Porthos filled Aramis in on what he had missed, sparing no detail of D’Artagnan’s melon-shooting under Porthos’s drunken tutelage, from Athos’s deep disproval to the clump of fruity flesh that he had taken to the face courtesy of D’Artagnan. All the while, the tickle in Aramis’s nose grew, such that, eventually, not even his habitual sniffles could ward it off.

“Hhhh’RSHHH’ooo! Hhh’TSCHHH! Hehh…Ihhh’ISHHH’uhh! Heh’ZDSHHH’uhh! Oh… Snf!” Aramis snuffled into the handkerchief, feeling an outright return to abject misery now that the sneezes had come back full-force. “Sorry,” he croaked. He waved at Porthos. “Carry on.” But no sooner than he spoke his last word did his breath hitch again and launch him forward into his fist. “Ihh’KISHHH!” The sneeze snagged in his throat and left him coughing breathlessly. 

Once the fit had eased, Aramis looked over to where Porthos had been sitting across from him at the table, only to find the spot vacated. “Porthos?” he called hoarsely. 

Porthos’s voice came from somewhere behind the maze of open cupboards where he was hidden. Aramis could hear him rifle around through his herbs and cups. “I’m getting you tea.”

“Thank you.”

The large pot of water Aramis had boiled for his steam treatment was still sitting warm on the hearth, and so Porthos merely scooped some of it into a mug and mixed leaves and herbs and a bit of honey into it. His movements were a bit discombobulated and sluggish from drink, but he did not so much as slosh the tea when he brought it back to Aramis, setting it down gently in front of him. Aramis took a ginger sip and relished the feel of it against his throat; Porthos had not been too drunk to forget Aramis’s favorite sore-throat blend either.

The warmth of the tea made his nose run anew, and Aramis gave a blow into Athos’s handkerchief, which was now every bit as spent as his. He winced at the rough feel of it against his skin, raw and chapped from the day’s copious use. 

“I’m sorry I ruined your birthday, Porthos,” he said quietly, miserably. His gaze was at the floor, at the tips of his friend’s boots. 

Porthos’s fingers came to rest at Aramis’s chin, tipping his head up to face him. “None of that,” Porthos said tenderly. “Absolutely none of that.”

“But you should be–”

“Right where I am, with my brother who gave me the best birthday celebration.” Porthos stroked the hair from Aramis’s temple, and pressed a brief kiss to his warm skin. “Poor Aramis,” he said. “So sick and worried.” He tapped the tea mug. “Drink up, and then let’s both get to sleep, alright? I need you well enough to take my side against Athos in the Great Melon Debate.”

Aramis gave a hoarse chuckle. “I don’t know that I’ll ever be well enough for that.”

#if this seems bad and/or rushed #it's because it is #i'm still having a rough go of it #but i wanted to get this out there #obligatory tags #sick ara/mis #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #more muskie snz!!! #my writing #snz fic #snz kink

[groundcontrol21]

Hello! If you haven't yet gotten five requests, may I please request December 18th with maybe... d'Art? Ara/mis as backup char, of course. =) Thank you in advance!

Happy December 18th! Of course I had to incorporate them both in there, bc I can't leave my favorite marksman alone, now can I? Hope you enjoy! This skews a bit book-verse-y in terms of speech and whatnot. CW: contagion (not intentional)

“Heh’TSCHOOO!” 

With a series of grumbles and groans, D’Artagnan rubbed at his dripping nose with his handkerchief. He had long since stopped bothering to tuck it back in his doublet, preferring instead to keep the cloth balled up in his fist for ease of access. And such ease was certainly needed, he noted with a bitter cough, for it seemed his horse could scarcely take two steps forward without some symptom of this wretched ailment making itself known. He shivered, bundling as deeply as he could into the fur tucked around his shoulders.

Ahead of him, Athos slowed his mount and gazed back. “Is Aramis’s cloak not helping?”

The fur grazed his cheek and his sensitive nose as D’Artagnan ducked deeper into the cloak in an attempt to keep himself warm. “It is–heh’KSHOOO!-- helping as much as anything can help a man with a headcold so bad. Ihh’KSHHH!” He sniffled lamentably. The fur-lined cloak chased away the worst of his shivers, but that was a pitiable solace to D’Artagnan whose very face felt stuffed full of mud. “I’m beginning to think I’ll never be well again.”

“Peace, D’Artagnan, you have been ill for two days,” Athos said. Even so, his brow still furrowed when D’Artagnan descended into a raspy fit of coughs (the Gascon had intended for those coughs to be a rebuke of Athos’s wanton disregard for his ill state, but his sore throat took precedence). “Still, we will stop at the next village we come upon for rest and shelter.”

They rode in silence for a while save for D’Artagnan, who held fast to Aramis’s cloak with each sneeze lest it come undone. In time, Porthos rode up alongside him and leaned close, his tone conspiratorial. “You’re a lucky lad, you know. It’s not just anyone whom Aramis will lend a present from an admirer.”

In spite of himself and his misery, D’Artagnan could not help but raise an eyebrow. “An admirer?”

“Of the feminine sort,” Porthos said with a knowing grin before his countenance soured. “He wouldn’t even lend the cloak to me when I was drenched in a downpour! Said I’d ruin it.”

“I’m not deaf, mon ami,” Aramis called. The man was shivering desperately in his saddle; giving D’Artagnan the cloak had left him with naught more than his thin blue cape as defense against the misty wind. “I didn’t lend you my cloak because you had just come inside to sit in front of the fire to dry yourself. Don’t be dramatic.”

“Psh! Details!” Porthos scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Maybe I should get sick just for a chance to wear it. It does look so comfortable and warm.”

“Hhh’RSHHH!” D’Artagnan mopped at his nose with his handkerchief sullenly. “Come any closer and you just might.”

******

They reached a town with an inn, which gratefully had a room with a hearth that was big enough for the four of them to share. Wasting no time, the three friends tucked D’Artagnan into bed, spreading Aramis’s cloak atop the blankets for a final layer of warmth. The comfort of lying down was so blissful after a miserable day of riding that D’Artagnan fell asleep immediately. Athos and Porthos departed in search of an apothecary where they might buy some more herbs to soothe the young man’s symptoms, leaving behind Aramis not only to keep watch and stoke the fire, but also to warm up himself, for he was shivering almost as badly as the ill Gascon. 

Some time later, D’Artagnan awoke to see his friend alone, hunched upon himself as he sat in front of the hearth and prodded at the flames with a poker. D’Artagnan blinked heavily, clearing his occluded throat, and called out to him, “Aramis?”

But though Aramis turned his face to him, it was plainly clear to D’Artagnan that the man could not truly focus on him, nor could he answer, because in that moment his features were overcome with the misty reverie of an oncoming sneeze. He dropped the poker hastily back into its holder, his hands scrambling to his face. “Hhh’KSHHH’uhh! Heh’ISHHH’uhh! Hehhhh’ISHHH!”

“Pardieu, are you alright?” D’Artagnan asked, though the sheer volume and ferocity of his friend’s sneezes brooked only one answer to the question–at least, only one answer which was honest.

A blush rose, creeping up from out beneath Aramis’s collar and into his cheeks. “I think I might–heh…Ehhh’KSHHH!--be coming down with what you have.”

D’Artagnan frowned.

“Fret not,” Aramis said. “It’s to be expected. We have been spending every moment in each other’s presence these past days, riding, eating, sleeping.”

D’Artagnan was sure riding in the cold and damp without a cloak surely did not help matters either. A spark of guilt fluttered in D’Artagnan’s chest as he considered himself, tucked up cosily in bed with the cloak still draped over him. Not so much guilt he would consider parting with the fur-lined warmth, but… An idea came to D’Artagnan’s foggy mind and he sat up, bundling the cloak in his arms and shuffling over to take a seat on the floor beside Aramis. 

“D’Artagnan?” Aramis asked blearily as D’Artagnan set to draping the cloak across both their shoulders. Aramis gave a full-body shiver at the sudden influx of warmth and, seemingly unconsciously, tucked himself closer to D’Artagnan. He sighed gratefully, and D’Artagnan couldn’t help a small smile. 

“It’s your cloak after all.”

“You should…Eh’KESHHH’uhh!” Aramis produced a handkerchief from his doublet and snuffled into it. His nose was already pink, and D’Artagnan wondered just how often he’d blown it while D’Artagnan had been dozing. “You should be in bed.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes at the hoarse-voiced attempt at mother henning. “By that logic, then, so should you.”

“Ahh,” Aramis sighed, a touch pleading, “but it is so much warmer close to the fire.”

D’Artagnan laughed. “My thoughts exactly.”

And so they arranged themselves so that each was as comfortable and as warm as possible, ending with Aramis slumped against D’Artagnan, head pillowed against his shoulder, and D’Artagnan leaning his own forehead against Aramis’s. And such was how Porthos and Athos found the two men upon their return, huddled into their fur-cocoon, their congested snores a soft harmony against the crackling of the fire in the hearth.

#answered asks #december prompt fill #prompt fill #sick d'artagnan #that's a new one #sick ara/mis #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #more muskie snz!!! #my writing

[groundcontrol21]

House Calls (M, Original)

This takes place in some vague 20th century Russian countryside winterscape. I might have more to say about Anatoly later as a character, but as for now he’s a new young doctor just doing his best.

***

After a long day, Anatoly let the cold wind blow the door shut behind him as he slumped, weary and chilled, against the wall. His medical bag dropped from his hands to the floor with a thud, and he swiped his hand beneath his runny nose. In a moment he’d move, shake the snow from his overcoat, brew a tea for his throat, but for now…

A mewling sound drew his attention to the window above the washbasin in the kitchen, and he groaned. “The least you could do is close the window behind you,” he grumbled as he scooped Mashka up with a hand under her gray belly. With the other hand, he pushed the offending window shut and locked it, more for habit’s sake than out of any utility, as even a tiny stray tabby cat could find her way in through it. No wonder the house was always freezing.

He set Mashka down on the floor near the tiny hearth and lit a fire there to chase away the chill of the open window as well as the general chill that seeped into the house as a matter of course. Living in the countryside granted him slightly larger living quarters than the city tenements he had called home in his youth, but he had no one with whom to share his little shack. The loneliness of it all, especially when the wind whistled hard against the shoddy window frame , made the house feel colder and more expansive than ever, and there was no-one he could press against, to keep warm and chase away such a feeling.

As if privy to his thoughts, Mashka mewed reproachfully.

“Except for you, of course” he told the cat. “Though you could learn some manners.”

Anatoly supposed it was good the cat had shaken him from his reverie, else he might have fallen asleep at his doorstep. While he knew enough of medicine to know napping a bit in a wet coat would not actually make him sicker, he knew enough of life to know the experience wouldn’t have been enjoyable.

He brewed a pot of tea, more water than leaves, over the fire and warmed his stiff hands while he did so. Besides the tea leaves, all that remained in his measly kitchen was sad-looking half potato that not even Mashka had nibbled at. It was just as well; Anatoly didn’t feel much like eating anyhow.

Mashka climbed into his lap, kneading at his stomach and blinking up at him expectantly. “I don’t have anything,” he told her sternly. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going out to get anything either, not in that—“ He gestured at the snowstorm raging beyond the window “—and definitely not with the c-c-c-cold I’ve–I’ve got, Hehh’TSCHHH!”

The expulsion nearly launched the cat off his chest, and Mashka yowled her displeasure. “Snf! I’m sick. If you want to be my housemate, you’ll have to get used to it.”

Mashka mewed again disapprovingly, before burrowing her head into Anatoly’s shirt. No sooner had she done so, however, than did his breath hitch again and send her scrambling.

“Hehh’TSCHHoo! Ihhh’TSCHHooo! Ugh.” He sniffled wetly, feeling oddly betrayed that the stray cat would desert him so easily. He called after her. “Make yourself useful and make me some soup.”

Anatoly coughed, feeling suddenly shivery and a bit weak. He thought about taking his temperature, but his bag was out of arm's reach, so he disregarded the idea. He probably didn’t have one anyhow, and even if he did, he didn’t intend to do anything about it.

He was half-asleep again, lulled this time by the pleasant warmth and crackle of the fire, when he was startled by a knock at the door. No one who had any sense would be round for a social call in this weather, so whatever it was must have been urgent. Anatoly forced himself to his feet and opened the door, bracing himself against the cold wind it let in.

“Lydia,” he said upon seeing the neighbor girl bundled at his doorstep. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Lydia blushed and turned slightly away, worrying her braid between her fingers. “I know it’s late but Mama just cut her hand chopping potatoes and she says she’s fine but I’ve held pressure to the wound for ten minutes and it’s still bleeding so I think it needs stitches and I’d do it myself but–”

Anatoly held up his hand with a smile. “Just let me get my bag and my coat and I’ll come with you.”

He went to retrieve his coat from its hook, only to see Mashka sitting atop the washbasin, paw outstretched toward the window. He went to retrieve her, debating the merits of stuffing her in his bag to avoid any troublemaking in his absence, but before he could do anything, a tickle sprang up in his nose.

“Ehh’TSSCHH!” He sniffled heavily and winced; that one had hurt his throat. “Mashka, don’t even think about opening that window!”

Lydia, ever the polite and slightly timid girl she was, had remained in the threshold instead of following Anatoly in. “Oh,” she called worriedly, “if you have company…”

Anatoly settled for placing the offending feline near the hearth, hoping that the warmth would prevail upon what little sense she had and make her reluctant to move to invite more cold in. “No, I don’t have company–snfff!--it’s just this damn cat is always leaving my windows open.”

He slipped into his coat and collected his satchel. “Ehh’KSSSHHoo!” He turned, burying his nose in the crook of the arm that did not hold his bag. Blinking away stray tears (that sneeze really grated on his throat), he straightened up. “Ready. Let’s go.”

Lydia frowned, her fingers slipping from the ends of her braid. “You’re sick.”

Anatoly shrugged. “There’s only so many times you can be sneezed on before you start sn–ehh–sneezing yourself. KSSHHEWW!”

Lydia still eyed him dubiously, but led him back through the snow toward her home down the road. The cold air instantly made Anatoly’s nose run, but it wasn’t worth it to dig out a handkerchief for the journey, so he merely lagged behind Lydia to spare her listening to him sniffle as if his life depended on it.

They reached the house, which only slightly larger than Anatoly’s but in a lesser state of disrepair and much warmer inside. “Mama, I’ve brought Anatoly to give you stitches,” Lydia called, shutting the door and taking Anatoly’s coat. A vicious shiver assaulted him at the layer’s removal, but luckily it went unnoticed. At the table sat Lydia’s mother and a half-chopped radish, which she eyed in a way that spoke of betrayal and vengeance.

“Stitches,” the woman spat, even as she pressed a reddened cloth to her palm. “I don’t need stitches.”

Anatoly set his bag on the table and gestured to the handkerchief beside her that had already been bloodily sacrificed to the cause. “I would say you do, Yelena.”

“Anatoly, what’s happened? You sound like you’ve gargled with walnuts.”

Anatoly felt his cheeks warm, but there was no use in lying. “I’m just a bit under the weather.” Or, no use in lying too much. “Let’s see your hand.”

Even as Yelena did as she was told, she shook her head. “Tch, Lydia, bringing a sick boy out in the storm for a little knick.”

“Lydia did exactly the right thing,” Anatoly said, and instantly felt the girl relax beside him. “No sense bloodying up more handkerchiefs than necessary when a little needlework can avoid it.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Yelena reached out with her uninjured hand to pinch Lydia’s cheek. “My smart little girl.”

Anatoly smiled to himself as he went to the sink to wash his hands, then took the supplies he needed from his bag. He tipped a bit of iodine solution onto a cotton bandage, then motioned for Yelena to give him her hand.

“First, I’ll disinfect–“ Anatoly pulled away and turned his head. “No, first I’ll Ihhh’hihhhmKSHHH!! Hehh’KSHHH!” He shook his head vigorously with a sniffle. “Hopefully I got those out for the time being.”

Yelena made a sympathetic noise in the back of her throat, but said nothing more as Anatoly prepared and began to stitch up her hand. He took his time, wanting to leave her with as little a scar and thus as great of mobility in her palm as possible. Lydia was practically on his back, so close was she to watch him work, but he didn’t mind.

What he did mind, though, was the unfortunate consequence of looking downward so intently for such an unbroken stretch of time. He was sniffling, first frequently, then urgently, before trying to turn and wipe his nose on his shoulder.

“Snf! Snf! SNFFF!”

He was so close, just two more stitches, but he could not wait any longer. He held Yelena’s hand in place and twisted the opposite direction, hoping the warning he was about to give was enough to avoid spraying Lydia. “Excuse me. Hehh’KMPFF! Hihhh’TSHHOooo!�� He crushed his nose into his shoulder again as he turned back to his task. “Sorry,” he said blearily.

“Poor boy,” Yelena cooed.

Anatoly managed to hold back his next sneeze just long enough to finish the stitches and tie them off, but no longer. “Hehh’RSHHH!” He twisted away again, before turning back to give Yelena’s wrist a soft pat. “There you go.”

Lydia helped him clean up afterward, and once everything was clean and cleared away back in its proper spot, Anatoly couldn’t help but sink into the tattered sofa, his eyes fluttering shut. “Hehh’TSCHHH’uhhh! HESHHooo! Hehh’RSSHH’uhh!” He blew his nose and, feeling a hand on his forehead, opened his watery eyes to find Yelena frowning at him. “It’s just a bad cold. Snf! I’ve seen enough patients with it to–to know. Hhh’TSCHOO!”

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “And I’ve had enough colds in my day to know that you must feel completely miserable. I’ll get you some soup and tea.”

“Mind your hand!” Lowering the handkerchief slightly, Anatoly called hoarsely at her retreating back.

She waved her injured hand dismissively. “Ahh, pff!”

“At least mind it for my sake, so I don’t have to do those stitches again!”

In response, Yelena set to preparing the tea with more vigor and clashing of cookery than was strictly necessary. Anatoly rolled his eyes, ignoring the way doing so made him slightly dizzy.

Lydia laughed softly and took a seat next to him, infinitely more at ease now that she was at home and with everything sorted. “She won’t listen.”

“Perhaps I should start charging her by the stitch, then. Ahhh’KSSSHHH’uhhh!” Anatoly kept his eyes shut for a moment, palm lingering at his throat as he waited for the soreness to recede a bit. He was infinitely grateful that Yelena hadn’t listened to his protestations of wellness, for he truly, truly wasn’t well.

“You shouldn’t work tomorrow.”

“And if I don’t?” Anatoly asked, a bit more snappishly than intended. He softened. “People don’t stop getting sick just because I’m sick.”

“Still…” Lydia said, worrying at her lip. “Ask Doctor Rosenbaum to help you. Just for a day while you rest.”

“And steal him from the next town over?” Anatoly shook his head. “The two of us are stretched thin as it is, I don’t need to make any more trouble for him.”

The house was silent for a moment, save the whistling kettle and Yelena’s lowly hummed accompaniment. If Anatoly had been concerned with anything but stemming the flow of his nose before it dripped onto the floor, he might have seen the glint in Lydia’s eye as she steeled herself to suggest:

“I could help you?”

Anatoly kept himself from laughing only because he knew what it took for Lydia to even make such a suggestion. “Lydia,” he said firmly, but not unkindly, “you have to go to school. Aren’t there exams you should be revising for?”

“I’ll pass all of them anyway,” she said lowly, shyly, cheeks coloring at her rare display of confidence. “You know I will.”

And Anatoly did know, not least of all because he had been helping her study since the month he’d arrived in the village and she had started secondary school. Her marks had been increasing steadily, ever since Anatoly had realized he needed to imbue her less with formulas and his own knowledge of anatomy, and more with the idea that she would and could succeed.

She watched him now, eyes bright, and Anatoly got the feeling that this moment could demolish whatever building blocks he’d given her in the past. Still, he could not in good conscience ask that a fourteen-year-old girl neglect her studies because her doctor neighbor had the sniffles, and so he was at an impasse. It would have been the perfect time for a sneezing fit, to buy himself more time to deliberate, but of course, his body was unobliging.

Anatoly let out a careful sigh, managing only to cough once. “I’ll let you help if and only if I am so sick I physically cannot do it myself, alright?”

“Alright,” Lydia said with a smile as her mother returned, carrying tea. “I hope you are, then.” Lydia’s eyes widened, and she almost shot out of her seat. “Wait! I didn’t mean—”

Anatoly took the tea graciously and sipped at it with a chuckle. “It’s no worry, Lydia. I know what you meant.”

#my writing #ocs: anatoly #snz fic #the world needs so much more historic snz fic

[groundcontrol21]

The Handkerchief(s) of Aramis (M)

In the 1978 musical movie adaptation of The Three Musketeers, Aramis complains about going to England and says (and I quote) “It’s damp in London, and I only have twelve handkerchiefs.” Naturally I went insane (see this post for evidence).  Unfortunately, given the events of the book and therefore the movie, Aramis never makes it to London to put these handkerchiefs to use. So here I am, changing the plot around a bit to remedy that :) 

Title taken from the actual title of one of the chapters in the book that punched me directly in the k!nk.  

******

Waving the bundle of letters he had just received from Captain Treville, D’Artagnan swaggered into the stable yards where Aramis and Porthos were, reclining against the wall and munching on apples that belonged to the horses. Athos was absent from the scene, though it was just as well; he was recovering from a slight infection to his shoulder wound, and as such, the road was not the place for him. 

“I must go to London to deliver these letters to the Captain’s brother-in-law,” D’Artagnan told the two. Upon seeing their eyebrows raise appraisingly, D’Artagnan added. “Congratulations on his graduation from the academy, nothing interesting.” 

He unhooked his horse from its post, narrowing his eyes when his two friends were slow to do the same. “I trust you two will accompany me?”

“London?” Aramis clicked his tongue and shook his head, letting the apple fall to the ground. “It’s damp in London, and I only have twelve handkerchiefs on my person.”

“Twelve?” D’Artagnan repeated incredulously with a shake of his own head. “We’ll only be gone a week. I should say that number would more than hold you over.”

“Not quite so, Gascon,” Porthos added. “Our Aramis has all the constitution of a delicate flower. Get him a bit too wet and he’ll be out of sorts for weeks.”

This was all news to D’Artagnan, for Aramis seemed far from frail and sickly. The man wielded a sword with prowess and could shoot a fly from the hair of a horse; in fact, D’Artagnan suspected that, after himself, Aramis was the fittest of their coterie. Doubtful, he looked to the man in question for confirmation, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for his two friends to begin laughing at him. 

But Aramis just nodded sadly. “Alas, I cannot even venture too far into Normandy in the autumn.”

“Put him in Bretagne in December, and he’ll come down with pneumonia.”

Aramis pretended to faint against his horse, his dainty hand covering his eyes as he swooned. “Oh Porthos, don’t remind me!”

D’Artagnan tapped his foot impatiently, still unable to shake his initial suspicion that the two men were having him on, or at the very least, trying to malinger. “So will you accompany me or not?”

“Of course,” Aramis said decisively, before swinging himself into the saddle with a flourish. “I am only warning you that your handkerchief may need to be sacrificed for my efforts.” He clamped a hand to his heart, looking suddenly stricken. “Tell me at least, D’Artagnan, that there are no women who await us in London. I could not bear the thought of any fine English ladies seeing me so indisposed.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes as he mounted his own horse, hearing Porthos do the same behind him. “There are no women unless you count Treville’s brother-in-law among them.”

Aramis surveyed D’Artagnan critically. “Is he a bachelor?”

D’Artagnan blinked. “I believe so?”

Aramis considered the answer for a moment, face inscrutable, before nodding, apparently satisfied. “Very well, then.” He kicked his horse forward and raised his hat in the air. “To London!”

Porthos followed suit. “To London!”

D’Artagnan urged his own horse to a gallop and followed after the two Musketeers, still feeling distinctly like he was caught in the middle of some elaborate joke. He gave himself a shake and resolved to deal with it later; for now he would focus on the road that lead them outside Paris and beyond, into the countryside and later to the sea. 

********

“Eh’KESHHH’uhh! Ach, this damn rain. Snf! ITCHIEW!” Aramis massaged at his head with a pale hand, the rings on his fingers glinting as the movement made them catch the candlelight in the tavern. The first wrenching sneeze, after riding just half a day in the misty English air, could have been a joke, but the seeming thousands that followed certainly were not. They reached London as Aramis was doing naught more than alternating between shivering and sneezing, and Porthos had given up his own riding cloak to drape around the man’s shoulders. 

It had been drizzling, even raining, since they set foot on the island, much to the chagrin of the poor, suffering Aramis, for they had no choice but to ride on. They three could waste an entire month waiting for the London sun to shine. Papers delivered, they turned back at once, eager to get Aramis back home and to bed, but the foul weather had turned even fouler, and now they were hunkered down in an inn some miles still inland from the port that would take them back to Boulogne, awaiting a break in the downpour. D’Artagnan leaned his head on his hand, listening to the sounds around him: the low hum of the other travelers who were presently seeking solace from the storm, the fierce lashing of the rain against the window panes, Aramis’s completely waterlogged sniffling. 

Porthos returned to the table with a mug and slid it across the table. “Here’s another hot wine for you, Aramis.”

With a grateful inclination of the head, Aramis pulled the mug closer. “Th-heh-thank you, Por–Heh’KSHIEW! Por–heh’ih’HISHH’ooo!” He buried his nose in the folds of his handkerchief, shutting his eyes as he paused a moment, as though too tired to do anything but wait for gravity to drain it and do the work for him. “Ugh, snf!” He blinked rapidly and lowered the handkerchief. “Porthos.”

D’Artagnan’s cheeks colored; it was, for all intents and purposes, his fault that Aramis was feeling this terrible in the first place. He tried to hide his disgusted wince as Aramis emptied what must have been every liquid in his body into the handkerchief. He forced what he hoped was a sympathetic slant to his visage. “How are you feeling?”

“HESHH’uhhh!” The cloth did not move from his nose as he spoke; Aramis merely regarded D’Artagnan with bleary, tired eyes over the top of it. “Snf! Need you even ask?”

D’Artagnan reasoned he deserved such a snappy reply to what had been a rather foolish question. It was plain to see how Aramis was faring, from the way he buried his head in his hands with a soft moan whenever he glimpsed a reprieve from his nose, to the way his voice was low and thick with congestion. That was, of course, to say nothing of the wet sneezes and drippy sniffles that assaulted him with a dogged regularity, leaving his nose a terribly sore and chapped mess. 

D’Artagnan turned his attention to the water splashing against the windowpane with a muttered curse. “If only this rain would let up a bit, we could continue on our way back to Paris.” Aramis coughed and Porthos rubbed his shoulders. D’Artagnan felt himself soften. “At least get you to France where you can be ill in a place with a civilized language.” 

On account of one of Porthos’s old mistresses being a cloth merchant’s wife from Dover, he was the only one of them with any knowledge of English, however rudimentary. Between fragments and hand signals (and Aramis’s quite noticeable ailment which transcended both language and culture), he was able to get Aramis a few things to ease his symptoms, but the going had not been easy. Porthos had nearly got the three of them kicked out when he slammed his fist on a counter hard enough to crack it in his frustration at the innkeeper’s inability to understand his request for “wine with miel… you know, from bzz bzz” and the associated insect-related gesticulations. 

Aramis scoffed, the sound scraping at his throat. “A bit! Ahh’TSHIEW! Snf! Oh… Hihhh’TSHHH!” He mopped his nose miserably. “If it lets up only a bit then I am back in the a-a-ccursed–Ahhh’KSHIEW!--accursed damp that got me in this–snf–situation in the first place! HESHHIEWW! Ehh’KSHHH’uhh! HEPTSHIEW! Oh…” He pinched at the bridge of his nose, his eyes fluttering shut, though he kept the sodden handkerchief close at hand. “Better this way, as I am at least warm and d-dry–Ihh’SHHH!”

Aramis folded the cloth a few different ways, turning it this way and that in search of a dry patch, before dropping it to his lap with a scowl. “Pff, it is no use, this one is completely–Eh’KSHH’oo!”

“Take another,” Porthos said kindly, tapping the satchel in which the cloths were kept.

“Ahh’KSHHH’uhh!” He caught the sneeze in a cupped hand, his other outstretched and waiting for Porthos to place a fresh one within it. “Four days yet, at least, from–snf!--from Paris, and I am already on number…Eh…Snf! Hehhhh… eleven. Snf! HITSHIEW!!” He blew his nose again, muffling a moan into the folds of the cloth at the simple pleasure of its dryness.  

Once finished, he fixed the Gascon with a watery approximation of his usual cheeky grin. “We did warn you, D’Artagnan.”

Porthos merely shrugged and nodded in agreement as Aramis continued sniffling and snuffling into his penultimate handkerchief. For his part, D’Artagnan was slightly chagrined that he had not taken the warning seriously, for all that now stood between the one handkerchief he owned being well and truly sacrificed was the twelfth handkerchief of Aramis and that of Porthos. 

“Heh’TCHOO!”

And at the current rate, D’Artagnan knew the two articles would not be able to withstand the siege for long. This time, he could not altogether hold back his wince as Aramis made prodigious use of the handkerchief to clear his nose, for all D’Artagnan could imagine was his one lone handkerchief in its place. No matter how many washes it was subjected to, given the sheer ferocity of Aramis’s cold, D’Artagnan would never, ever be able to accept the defiled piece of cloth back should Aramis attempt to return it. So he resigned himself, as he listened to Aramis sneeze and sneeze, to buying himself a new handkerchief immediately upon their arrival back in Paris and, if money allowed, perhaps a couple more to fortify Aramis to avoid this sort of situation should they ever be required to go back to England in the future.

#i wrote this in btw ebbs and flows of migraine so forgive any badness #would treville have a brother in law in england? who knows who cares #my writing #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #snzfic #sick ara/mis #more muskie snz!!! #handkerchief action 😰😰😰

[groundcontrol21]

Perfumed Peril (M, Musketeers)

Lol remember when I said I had written my first and only allergy fic? Oops my hand slipped (I had an idea for a scenario that just screamed A/ramis)...

The ever-changing location of Marie DuPont’s hands on his body was making it increasingly hard for Aramis to devote his complete attention to the poetry he was meant to be reading to her. The room was awash in candlelight, but Aramis knew it was not their pitiable flames which contributed to the rising heat in his cheeks.

“My dear,” Aramis said breathlessly, her palms inching upward from his thighs. “For all you assured me that these cantos would be to my taste, you seem determined to ensure I cannot focus on them.”

“Perhaps,” she said, hands sneaking up further, “a bit of a break is in order, hmm?”  

Aramis set the book of poetry aside on the engraved oak table as Marie led him, her soft hand in his, to her magnificent tufted bed. She parted the curtains and ushered Aramis in as though she were the driver helping the master into the carriage, but for the chaste kiss she pressed to Aramis’s knuckles and of course, the increasingly less chaste kisses which followed, snaking up his arm to his shoulder and then his neck. Her lips parted the cambric of his shirt away from his skin deftly, and Aramis moaned his pleasure. 

“Wait here a moment,” she whispered, chin brushing against Aramis’s ear as she spoke. With a mischievous grin, she snapped the curtains shut, leaving Aramis with her tantalizing silhouette as she slipped off her outermost garments.

Aramis peeked out his head. “You wicked, wicked woman.”

Marie smiled at him and retrieved a clear bottle from the stand nearest her bed. She flicked a few drops of the transparent liquid therein upon her fingers and patted them on her cheeks, her neck, her breasts. Immediately, Aramis was assaulted by a sharp, pungent scent that may have been pleasant had his nose been able to get over the shock of smelling it. As such, the very air he breathed felt ticklish and itchy. 

He sniffed once, hard, hoping that this might help him acclimate to his new surroundings. Marie hummed as she dabbed more of the liquid on her wrists, clearly mistaking Aramis’s sniff as one of approval, or at least of interest, and not a desperate attempt to stop the feeling of insect wings whirring in his nose.

“It’s a new perfume,” she said, giving the bottle a shake. “Sandalwood. My husband procured it for me from one of his trading partners in the East and gave it to me as a parting gift before he left for Amiens. Isn’t it lovely?”

Marie came back and perched herself on the bed beside Aramis, who did all he could to subtly angle his head away from her without being outrightly offensive. Still, it was no use, the scent was wafting through the entirety of the chambers now, and already Aramis’s nose was running, his eyes starting to water.

“It’s–hihhh–It’s quite strong.” He scrubbed quickly, hopefully surreptitiously, at his nose. 

She smiled at him, tracing a neatly-manicured finger along Aramis’s hairline at his temple. “Do you like it?”

“Snf!” On any other occasion, Aramis would have welcomed the contact, but as such it put his nose in even closer proximity to her fragrant wrist, a fact which was rapidly proving to be his undoing. “I think I’m–HESHHOOO! Snf! ITSSHOOO!”

“Oh, Aramis,” she cooed, stroking his cheek. “Are you well?” She slipped a gentle hand to the base of his head and pulled him toward her breast. 

“Nnnn, it’s–” Frantically, as the whole of him began to leak ceaselessly, Aramis did his best to wrangle himself free, to push himself away from her, too desperate to worry about how such a motion would be received. “The p-perfume! Ihhh’HISHHH’ooo! Snf! I’m—HISHHH’uhh! I think I’m–HESHHH’uhh!” He swiped his fingers across his burning, streaming eyes, and croaked, “Allergic.”

“Oh, my poor Aramis.” 

Marie frowned at him, which only deepened when three more explosive sneezes burst out of him, leaving him spluttering, gasping, and sniffling in the aftermath. “Here.” She reached for the cloth which rested beside a bowl of water on her nightstand. “Take my handkerchief.”

His breath already hitching with the promise of another sneeze, Aramis accepted the proffered cloth without question. “Hhh’RSHHH!” But as soon as he pressed it to his nose he realized the folly of what he had just done; even as stopped tight with congestion as he was, he could still smell that the handkerchief was as doused in perfume as its owner. 

Aramis groaned. “I n-nneed–HETCHHH’OO!--need to… HEHHSHHHH!” He sniffled and did his best to swallow around his inflamed throat, every inch of him on fire with the burning itch. “Need to go.”

Through waterlogged eyes, Aramis glimpsed Marie’s blurry figure rise alongside him. “I’ll escort you.”

“No!” Aramis cried desperately, all but sprinting away from her and to the door. “Please. Th–heh–the p-perfume. EHH’TSCHOO! Snf! I–” He could hold on no longer; the perfumed air of the bedchamber was slowly suffocating him, and so he was forced to dash out the door, down the staircase, without sparing a backward glance toward Marie nor her servants as he rushed forward with the singular purpose of reaching the outside and its sweet, unadulterated air. 

Uncaring of the people he passed (and likely frightened), Aramis stumbled and staggered his way amidst sneezes and wheezing coughs until he ducked into a shady courtyard where he could be hidden from view and succumb fully to his affliction. “ITSCHOO! Hhhh’IDSHHH! HESHHH’uhh! Snf! EHHH’KSHOOO!” He sneezed again and again until he whimpered for mercy between ragged gasps for air. Every inch of him was positively consumed, his eyes inflamed, his throat and chest tight, his vision blurred as hot tears streamed from his eyes. 

“Hehh’ISHHHH’uhh! HEHSHH!” And yet still the infernal sneezes came, one after another, until Aramis was sure he would never taste freedom from them again. 

Gradually, as his nose began to settle and breathing became merely an arduous endeavor and not a torturous one, the memory of how urgently he had quit Marie’s chambers and scuttled out the door flooded back to Aramis’s mind, sending him awash in horror. He groaned, leaning his aching, heavy head against the trunk of the tree under which he had sought refuge, and shut his burning eyes. The chances that Marie DuPont welcomed him back into her home, let alone into her bed, after such an insult were slim, and though Aramis was confident in his ability to find another woman just as stimulating in mind and body as she (Paris was full of such beautiful creatures), he would surely miss her. The fact that the end of their relationship lay outside a jealous husband or a need to keep up a reputation and instead solely with Aramis and his own bodily weakness merely added to the sting.

“Eh’HISHHH!” Aramis wiped his nose with his now-sodden handkerchief, releasing another groan at its pitiful, woebegotten state. Though the prudent choice of action would have been to take himself back to his rooms for a clean handkerchief to deal with the residual effects of this perfume, Aramis found himself drawn in the direction of the tavern where he knew Porthos and D’Artagnan to be playing dice, reasoning slightly deliriously in his foggy mind that such a place was as good as any to sneeze out any remaining irritation. 

He entered the tavern, sniffling wetly and wiping at his eyes, but nonetheless spied his friend’s corner table almost immediately. Aramis trudged over, feeling every bit as exhausted as if he had spent the day in the saddle. Porthos glanced up at him as he approached, wide-eyed. 

“Did the Madame DuPont kick you…” The rest of his question died on his tongue as he better surveyed his brother, narrowed eyes scanning the length of Aramis’s undoubtedly dishevelled frame. “What happened to you, Aramis?”

D’Artagnan winced. “You look a bit…” 

Mercifully, the Gascon did not finish his thought, yet still Aramis found himself rankled. He dropped heavily into the chair beside Porthos with a thick sniffle, burying his still-itchy face in his hands and rubbing. “I don’t want to talk about it. Heh’KSHIEW!”

D’Artagnan narrowed his eyes further, his expression softening minutely. “Did you get sick?”

Porthos shook his head. “Nah, I think he’s…” He trailed off, brow creased in thought, until his face turned bright and he huffed an incredulous laugh, a loud guffaw that shook the table. “You turned allergic to Madame DuPont!” He grabbed at his rumbling belly, tears squeezing from his eyes. “Oh, that’s a new one.”

“I’m not allergic to her,” Aramis said bitterly. “Snf! Snf! Ihhh…” He rubbed at his nose with his already-soiled (though mercifully unscented) handkerchief, releasing a low growl in his throat at the way the gesture irritated his already raw skin. “Hihhh… Ihhh’TSHHHH!” 

He blew his nose hard enough that his ears popped, though he could still hear his friends laughing at his expense. “It’s–snf!--her perfume. Sandalwood.”

D’Artagnan snickered. “Damn, I guess I’ll have to throw the bottle I just bought away.”

“Ha ha.” Aramis lowered his handkerchief with a pointed glare, and was gratified when the Gascon had the good grace to look at least a bit chagrined. 

Porthos, too, took on an expression of greater concern. “Her perfume never bothered you before.” 

“Snf! HESHHH’oo!” Aramis groaned softly at the pounding in his head, wishing that his friends would prove their merciful countenances genuine by putting a bullet through it. “That’s because it’s new. Snf!” He coughed, his throat still lamentably tickly, especially given all the time that had passed. “Her husband gave it to her before he left for his travels.”

“Her husband…” Porthos whistled lowly and shook his head, mouth turning downward in disapproval. “Jesus Christ, Aramis.”

For reasons likely related to the sheer misery he was experiencing, the words from Porthos rankled him far more than they usually would. “Well, that is typically how one becomes a madame, is it not?” Aramis snapped, the words hot on his tongue. He shifted his watery gaze to their youthful companion. “And don’t look at me like that, D’Artagnan. As if you don’t have your eye on Constance. Eh’KSHHHH!”

Because Aramis had shut his bleary eyes and buried himself in his handkerchief once more, he did not see Porthos mouth grouchy at D’Artagnan, nor did he notice the subsequent pair of grins at his expense that followed. All he did notice was Porthos’s hands, warm, firm, and steady on his shoulders as he guided Aramis to his feet.

 “Come on,” Porthos said. “Let’s get you a bath and then to bed.”

#my writing #more muskie snz!!! #except it's allergies #surprise surprise #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #snzfic #allergyfic

[groundcontrol21]

Ensconced (M, Musketeers)

It’s been, what, a week without an A/ramis fic from me? Figured it was time again, so I gave the poor man the flu. In light of what was a hard week for me, I whipped this up as a lil gift for myself. Pure self-indulgence, and inspired quite heavily by conversations with the lovely @sniction-fiction

****************

A cool wind rattles against the shutters and Aramis feels as though he is outdoors in it, despite the fire crackling distantly in the hearth and the swath of blankets he hugs to his chest like a talisman. He shivers so hard his teeth chatter; every inch of him so utterly frigid it is as though nothing stands between him and the crisp winter air.

“Heh’NGSHH! Ihh’KSHHH!”

He sniffles as hard as he can, but even that feels like the most monumental of efforts. In any case, it isn’t enough; his nose is streaming down his lip, down the blanket, and he has no energy left within his muscles to even consider casting around for a handkerchief long since lost in the bedclothes. He coughs, fire scraping across his throat, and shivers again, so hard it is almost a convulsion. He is so cold he could cry, and perhaps he does, a couple tears squeezing out from the corners of his eyes at the thought of a lovely pair of hot bricks, warmed in the roaring hearth in the garrison’s kitchens, pressed at his sides, chasing away the chill at last. 

“HEH’SHHHH!”

He is far too ill to move. Maybe if he keeps shivering this hard he will warm himself up eventually. He burrows deeper into the blankets, desperate to leech whatever minuscule pocket of heat he can find, but he finds none. He whimpers, his head swimming in a fever-cloud, and he is so far gone into the mist that he swears he feels a hand stroke through his hair and rub briefly at his shoulder.

He drifts again, perhaps to sleep, feeling the thrum of his fever in his veins. Something blessedly warm and solid slithers beneath the blankets, against his stomach and his back, and again Aramis feels those hands adjusting the cloth-wrapped bricks, his blankets. Muzzily, he blinks awake. 

“P-Porthos?” His eyes, barely open wide enough to register the bleary form of his friend, snap shut once more and he buries his nose in the blanket. “Ihhh’KSHHIEW! Heh’NKSHH!” 

“I’m back,” Porthos says, and his voice is soft like spring sunshine. “Athos told me you were sick.” He rests his fingers against Aramis’s hot cheek, and his thumb rubs back and forth beneath his eye. He frowns, even as Aramis sighs at the blissful contact. “Didn’t tell me it was this bad.”

“Heh’TSHHHH! Hhhh’RSHHH’uhh! IKKSHHH!” The force of the sneezes wrench him forward, into the spot of blanket that is already painfully damp from before, and Aramis doesn’t know whether he has missed Porthos’s hand in the chaos. 

“Bless you,” Porthos says, voice still so soft, and then he is reaching beneath the blankets, cupping Aramis’s jaw, feeling the swollen soreness of his neck. “You sound miserable.”

All Aramis can do is nod and curl further in on himself, wishing he could press the bricks so close they would become part of him. Perhaps then the icy ache in his bones would dissipate. He gives another jolting shiver.

“Are the bricks helping?”

Aramis can’t answer. He coughs until no part of his face is dry, and he tastes the hot salty mixture of tears as he tries to swallow around his inflamed throat. He sniffles back what he can, and the wet tickle sets him off again into a shuddering sneeze.

“Hihhhh’ihhh’ISHHHH’uhh!”

The shivers begin anew, and Porthos makes a noise, sounding almost wounded. “Aw, shove over, then.”

The bed creaks and Aramis feels it dip under the man’s weight. Porthos has nestled himself against Aramis, halfway beneath the blankets again as he reforms the cocoon around the two of them now, before Aramis realizes what this means. He squirms, trying to push himself away, and the motion sends rolling aches through him.

“N-no,” he manages between clattering teeth, “You c-can’t.” His breath hitches again and he dives for the blanket. “Heh’ISHHIEW!” He drags the blanket over his mouth, muffling a hot, aching fit of coughs into the fabric. Anything to keep it away from Porthos. 

But Porthos is still there and even pulls him closer, snaking his arms around Aramis until his back is pressed against something both warmer and softer than a brick. “Shhh,” Porthos hums. One hand rubs gently across Aramis’s chest, and it is only because the motion dispels a bit of the ache there that Aramis realizes it had begun to hurt in the first place. 

“You let me do all the worrying now,” he says, and it’s suddenly all too easy for Aramis to allow his eyes to slip shut as the chill fades, chased away by the warmth which now ensconces him from all angles.

#100% self indulgence #probably has some mistakes too #bc i whipped this up so fast and i’m still not feeling 100% #but neither is aramis #womp womp #sick ara/mis #my writing #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #more muskie snz!!!

[groundcontrol21]

Sicktember #25

Prompt #25 Acid Refux/Heartburn Alternate #2: Vapor Rub

Fandom: Musketeers

Title: A Helping Hand

Summary: Aramis has a bad cough, and needs to apply the 17th century version of VapoRub. The problem is, he doesn’t have an uninjured hand with which to do so. But he does have a Porthos.

Notes: Back to what I do best 😈🤧

Porthos eased the door to his and Aramis’s shared room shut behind him and hung his cloak on its peg. “What did the good doctor say?”

Aramis was seated on his bed, legs dangling to the floor. He looked up at Porthos as he entered. “The fingers on this hand are all broken, save my thumb for all the good that will do me.” He held up his left hand to display the splinted and bandaged fingers to Porthos. True to his word, only his thumb was free of wrapping. 

“And this shoulder was dislocated,” he said, gesturing with his broken fingers to his right shoulder, which was in a sling. “And the collarbone is broken, just as we suspected.”

Porthos nodded as he dragged a chair across the floor to sit closer to Aramis’s bedside. “Of course.” Aramis’s horse had spooked at the sight of a snake just outside Paris and thrown him; it would have been a miracle if his arms hadn’t been injured given the awkward way he had landed. “Pay him money to tell us what we already know.”

“Porthos,” Aramis chided. “He did an expert job binding my fingers.” His breath hitched and he turned at his shoulder. “Hihh’TSHH!”

“And that? Flu?”

Aramis shook his head, even as his cheeks were flushed feverish pink. “Bad cold, he thinks.”

“Mmm, now why don’t I believe that?”

“Heh’TCHH’uhh! Ahh… Snf!” He shook his head slightly, a bit like a dog trying to clear off fleas. “There’s not much to be done for it either way. Just needs to run its course.” Porthos tried to read the set of his jaw to see whether Aramis agreed with Porthos or the doctor, but his face, save for markers of illness, was inscrutable. “He left me herbs to steep for my fever and a balm to put on my chest for my cough.” 

Porthos followed Aramis’s gaze to the bedside table upon which had been left the aforementioned supplies. “Yeah, don’t need to be adding broken ribs to the mix.” As if on cue, Aramis hunched forward with the same bone-crunching coughs that had convinced them to send for a physician upon arrival to Paris long before any horses were spooked. “Christ, Aramis, that sounds bad.”

The moment he had caught enough breath to do so, Aramis fixed him with one of his terrible little smiles, the slight quirk of the lips that was meant to allay concern in the face of all evidence to the contrary. While it did work to banish Porthos’s concern, he was sure Aramis’s intention was not to replace it with abject irritation and the desire to put a fist in Aramis’s face. Which was, incidentally, precisely what it did. 

“The one thing he did fail to consider,” Aramis said, oblivious, “is that I have little way to apply it.”

Porthos had never made a reply quickly in his life. “I’ll do it.”

“Would you, Porthos?” Aramis asked, and there it was, perhaps the only expression on Aramis’s face Porthos hated to see more than that infernal little smile. It was the expression Aramis wore whenever someone offered to go the smallest bit out of their way for him, as if Porthos had offered to pilot his own armada in Aramis’s name instead of just rubbing a bit of cream on his chest while he was sick and his bloody arms were out of commission. It made Porthos want to punch him equally as much as hold him tight to his chest. “He said to apply it frequently. Every two hours.”

“Is the sky blue, Aramis? ‘Course I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, mon ami.”

“Idiot,” Porthos said, and perhaps it came out too fondly, for Aramis laughed all the while Porthos really, really meant it. He had wanted to smack the sincerity from Aramis’s thanks, were it possible. “You don’t even have to ask.” The man was an idiot if he thought all those years meant nothing, that he could not ask Porthos for help with something so simple, that he could not expect Porthos’s help without even having to voice that something was amiss. 

Porthos helped Aramis adjust so that he was reclined comfortably on his pillows, and undid the tie on his linen nightshirt, splaying open the fabric to expose the largest surface of his chest in order to apply the balm. Aramis watched him intently, dark eyes alight with gratitude and trust. Porthos looked away, busied himself with the jar of balm, twisting and twisting the cap and feeling it slip around in his hands. 

He had barely cracked open the lid when he was hit with a burning scent so strong his eyes instantly began to tear. “God, Aramis, what is in this stuff?”

“Rosemary, mint… A whole mix,” Aramis said absently, and the feverish shine in his eyes was all too apparent. “Sorry, my mind was wandering a bit while he was explaining.”

“Whatever it is, I think the whole of Paris might be able to smell you coming for the next week.” Porthos chanced raising the jar a bit closer to his nose, and he instantly regretted it. “God, it’s making my eyes water.”

“Really? I’ll have to take your word for it.” Aramis gestured to his nose with his bandaged fingers and gave two demonstrative sniffles, the sound completely waterlogged. “Can’t smell a thing.”

Porthos winced at his friend’s heavy congestion, but even so shook his head incredulously. “Consider yourself lucky.” Grimacing, Porthos plunged his fingers into the jar to retrieve a glob of the stuff, half expecting it to burn a hole through his flesh given the scent. When it felt no different to any other salve, he held his fingers up to Aramis, intending to ask the man if he thought Porthos had taken enough, but found Aramis had closed his eyes. Porthos shrugged to himself, figuring that he had taken as good a beginning amount of the balm as any.

As soon as Porthos made contact with Aramis’s chest, however, the man’s eyes flew open and he nearly jumped to the ceiling, his breath coming in rapid puffs. 

Porthos withdrew his hand immediately. “What is it?” Was the mixture burning after all?

“Nothing, ‘s just…” After a few minutes of quick, tight breaths, Aramis relaxed back into the bedclothes once more and reached for Porthos’s wrist. “Just a bit colder than I was expecting, is all.” Gingerly, he patted Porthos’s knuckles. “Continue.”

Porthos did, feeling the balm glide over the fevered sheen that clung to Aramis’s skin. He frowned. “Not so much that it’s cold, it’s that you’re hot.” With his non-greasy hand, Porthos palmed Aramis’s cheek, then his forehead, his frown deepening. 

“Tea isn’t taking effect yet, then,” Aramis said tiredly. He swallowed awkwardly around a cough, then tried to keep doing so in an attempt to stifle the mounting fit that grew in response. His throat pulsed painfully with the effort. 

When it became obvious that sheer stubbornness was not going to quell the urge, Porthos stroked a damp curl back from Aramis’s forehead. “Just cough if you need to, Aramis,” he said softly. “It’s all right.”

He leaned back, knowing at least part of the man’s reticence in not choking himself was borne of a desire not to cough on him. Finally, Aramis turned his head toward the wall and coughed, a wet and aching volley that left him a breathless heap upon finishing. Completely spent, he sucked in two weary breaths that culminated in the most exhausted sneeze Porthos had ever heard.

“Ihhh…hiiihhh…Ih’tschhooo!”

Aramis sniffled once in the aftermath, seemingly not having the energy to do much else. Porthos helped him sit up and sip some more water from his waterskin, the only vessel that Aramis, with his broken fingers, could come close to holding even with assistance. Afterward, he lay back against the pillows and motioned for Porthos to continue applying the balm.

Porthos sighed. “I wish you weren’t feeling so rotten.”

“It’s alright,” Aramis said in a hoarse little voice, and Porthos’s heart turned. Couldn’t Aramis see that it wasn’t? Couldn’t he see how Porthos would sit here rubbing medicine into his chest until Porthos’s own arms gave out, if there was a chance it made Aramis feel just the tiniest bit better? 

Porthos did his best to ignore the hot flush of emotion that accompanied these thoughts, tried to get lost in the rhythm of little circles, take more balm, little circles. He moved slowly, in all reality far more slowly than he needed to, but Porthos knew Aramis relished physical touch, most of all when he wasn’t well, and Porthos couldn’t deny himself the comfort in the intimacy either.

Suddenly, a bandaged hand came to rest upon his wrist. He looked up at Aramis, who was watching him with a flushed and frantic expression. “P–P-oohh-rthos! Snf!”

“What’s wrong?”

From the angle, Porthos could glimpse a glistening wetness beginning to slide from Aramis’s reddening nostrils. “I still can’t–snf!--smell it–snf!--but i-hihh–it’s making–snf!--m-my n-nose–Snf! Snf! Eh’HESHH!”

“Oh.”

Both the sneeze and the realization had hit Porthos in equal measure, but Porthos had been doused in a great many worse things in service of far worse ends. He made to continue applying the balm, but Aramis flapped his injured hand at him so carelessly that, had Porthos’s reflexes not been so quick, the man might have done even more damage to his poor fingers. 

“M-move! Ehhh’KSHHHOOO!” Aramis collapsed toward his chest, no doubt trying to contain the spray from the eruption therein. “Heh’TSHOOO! Ehh’KSHHH! Hehh…Ihhh..HIHHKSHHH! Snf! Hhh’SHHH’uhh!”

Porthos moved as he had been commanded, and retrieved two fresh handkerchiefs from Aramis’s store. He stood at the man’s bedside a moment while Aramis snuffled miserably, hesitating out of a fear of being too forward, but altogether willing to be the hands his friend needed in this as well. 

But Aramis gave him no such opportunity. He blinked up at Porthos with bleary eyes and held out his wounded fingers, voice raw. “Give me that.”

“It’ll hurt your hand,” Porthos said, even as he laid the cloth carefully across the bandages, unwilling to cause any more harm. 

“Doesn’t matter.” Unable to bend his fingers to grasp it, he all but slammed the handkerchief to his face, and the strangled little noise he made suggested he had done just as Porthos predicted. “Heh’ESHHHH! Heh’ESHH’uhh! Snf!” He lowered the handkerchief to his chin to let Porthos see his smile, but it was a tired and watery echo that lacked any of its usual charm.

 “I let you rub balm on my chest, but I draw the line at letting you blow my nose for me.” Clumsily, he emptied his nose in the handkerchief, hardly finishing before dipping violently forward once more. “Ehh’SHHOO! Snf! Oh…Snf! A man must have some pride,” he said stuffily as he lowered it.

“You’ve cleaned worse fluids off the rest of us,” Porthos pointed out resolutely. The sight of blood and infected wounds turned his stomach a million times more severely, and Aramis had dealt with those on Porthos’s (and Athos’s and D’Artagnan’s) behalf countless times without complaint.

“That’s different,” Aramis said hazily, his eyes drifting shut.

This was another variant of the conversation they had had a thousand times before, and this time, because Aramis was spent, his shoulder aching, his voice coarse as gravel, Porthos would bow out and let them not have it again. He placed the cover back on the jar and patted the uninjured side of Aramis’s neck, relieved to find at least that even after all that had transpired the skin felt marginally cooler. 

“Well,” Porthos asked, “how do you feel after all that?”

“Emptier,” Aramis said, huffing a sore laugh, “that much is certain.” He cracked open his eyes once more. “If we keep applying it to schedule, I think you may even be spared any snoring from me tonight.”

“If that’s the case, I take back whatever bad things I said about the doctor. Man’s a miracle worker.”

Aramis smiled, his eyes closing once more, and in minutes he was asleep, comfortable enough indeed not to snore. And Porthos was left behind wanting to shake him, because couldn’t he see that was what he was most concerned about? Aramis only snored when he was sick, and Porthos just wanted him to be well, to be comfortable, to be whole and happy. That was what kept him up at night, the care he felt for this man and the intensity with which he felt it. Not just a bit of noise from the next bed over; they were soldiers who slept on campgrounds after all.

Porthos would leave him now to rest, but in two hours precisely, he would be back to repeat the process all over again. 

#my writing #sick ara/mis #more muskie snz!!! #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #this can honestly kinda be slash since that's kinda what i had in my head #but i also do like them as friends/platonic life pals #sicktember 2022 #sicktember day 25 #sicktember alternate 2 #snzfic

[groundcontrol21]

Sicktember #22

Prompt #22: Common Cold/Flu

Character(s): Anatoly and Dr. Rosenbaum

Title: Not Alone

Summary: Back to our regularly scheduled snz programming! Read this fic for some callbacky goodness. When Anatoly comes down with a bad case of flu, he feels ashamed to call for help when he needs it. Dr. Rosenbaum tries to cure him of both his ills and his foolishness. 

Notes: Would you believe me if I said this prompt was one of the last ones I wrote? It’s true; I just kept agonizing over how to fill it because cold and flu! Too many options! 

His heaviest quilt folded across his shoulders like a cape, Anatoly dragged himself from his bed and to the rickety table in the kitchen, plopping down in the chair so ungracefully he was briefly afraid the wood would give out beneath him. That would be all he needed on a morning like this. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he dialed the telephone, pressed the receiver to his ear, and tried not to moan at how much his throat hurt. 

“Daniel Abramovich?” Anatoly’s voice came out somewhere between a croak and a whisper, and he cleared his throat, long and painful, though it proved futile in making his voice sound any stronger. “It’s Anatoly Ivanovich.”

“If you’re calling for a diagnosis, my diagnosis is I feel myself getting sick just listening to you,” Doctor Rosenbaum said, and Anatoly could almost hear the wince in his voice. “You sound horrid.”

“I feel horrid,” Anatoly said with a hoarse, humorless exhalation that might have been a chuckle if he had the energy. His breath hitched briefly, a scant warning, and he did not have enough time to turn away before he sprayed the receiver. “Ehh’KISHHH! Snf!” He sniffled thickly, his nose beginning to run. “I-I think I have the flu—Ih’hihh’HISHOO!”

“I’m willing to bet on it.”

Anatoly realized, with a sinking feeling, that he had left his handkerchief in bed. He cringed at the lack of hygiene, but wiped his nose on a bit of the blanket, vowing to wash it ten times in boiling hot water and soap once he was well again. He sniffled once more, swallowing back a groan at how stopped up his whole head felt.

“Are you busy today?” he asked as a shiver jolted down his spine.

“Christ, you really think you have to ask?” Doctor Rosenbaum clucked his tongue, and Anatoly couldn’t help but smile; the man was surely shaking his head as he spoke. “I could have ten surgeries and I would sooner revoke your medical license than let you around a patient sounding like that.” 

“Heh’KDSHHH!”

“What do you need me to do for you?” Rosenbaum asked, his voice low, soft, and brimming with concern.

Anatoly gave a few wet, sore coughs, covering the receiver as best he could to spare Rosenbaum’s ears, before he cast a tired glance at the calendar on the kitchen wall in which he scribbled all his appointments. He read down the list: a follow up with a man who had passed a kidney stone, a mother whose baby had been too fussy to sleep for the past few days, a check-up on an old woman with a thyroid condition, a little boy who needed a vaccination.

“And the rest of the week?” Rosenbaum asked. “What appointments have you scheduled?”

“Thank you but I–Ehh’TSCHOO!. I–I doubt that’s–Snf! Hehh’ihhh’ISHHH’uhh!--necessary. Heh’RSHHHH!”

Anatoly could feel Rosenbaum’s unimpressed glare through the telephone, and he gave a controlled sigh before bowing his head and reading off the rest of the week’s appointments. He was shivering consistently now, and he pulled the blanket more tightly around his shoulders, hoping his teeth wouldn’t begin to chatter. He flicked a glance at the kitchen window just to be sure Mashka hadn’t opened it, but it was shut, and she was sunning herself in the pale winter light. 

“And it’s done, Anatoly Ivanovich,” Doctor Rosenbaum said. “Don’t you worry.”

“Thank you,” Anatoly said emphatically. “I know you’re–Ihh’KSHIEW!--a busy man. I don’t know how I’ll repay you.”

“You let me worry about that,” Rosenbaum said magnanimously, coaxing another little smile out of Anatoly. “I’m sure I’ll think of something for you to do.” 

Rosenbaum was silent for a beat, before asking, “Do you need me to pay you a visit?”

“No,” Anatoly said quickly, resolutely, forgetting that the man could not see him shake his head and instantly regretting the action. He swallowed, dizzy, but pushed on. “The last thing I need is for you to–snf!--catch this, too.”

“If you change your mind, you know where to find me,” Rosenbaum said, sounding a bit as though he doubted Anatoly’s judgment on the matter. “Metaphorically, of course, since I don’t want you leaving your bed. Doctor’s orders.”

Anatoly laughed hoarsely. “Aye, aye, sir.” 

Doctor Rosenbaum made a satisfied noise at the back of his throat, before bidding him farewell. “Feel better, Anatoly Ivanovich.”

Anatoly thanked him again, before hanging up the receiver and shuffling back to bed, intent on not moving again for anything short of the end of the world. 

********

A few days later, Anatoly found himself back in the same position, at the kitchen table and dialing Doctor Rosenbaum, but feeling, if possible, even more miserable than before. “Hello?” Anatoly said, praying his voice was loud enough to be heard. “It’s–” He tried to force his voice louder, but the strain was too much, and he bent forward with a relentless fit off coughing. 

The fondness in Rosenbaum’s voice was a thin mask for his concern. “Still haven’t shifted your flu, Dr. Kulyakov?”

“No, and I…” Anatoly trailed off, swallowing harshly, suddenly feeling very flushed and very, very nervous. Perhaps he was being over-dramatic, calling Rosenbaum like this, but then again, his wheezing chest had kept him awake all night as he sweat his fever into the pillow and trembled beneath the blankets. 

“Anatoly Ivanovich?” The worry in Rosenbaum’s voice was open and palpable now. 

“Could you come over?” Anatoly asked in a small voice. His head was spinning. “I th–thihhh–think–Ehh’KSHHH’uhh! Snf!--it’s developed into bronchitis and I–Ihh’TSHHHIEWW! I don’t have it in me to make it to town for the pharmacy.” The length of the request and subsequent explanation left Anatoly winded, and he crumpled forward into another fit of coughing, knuckling at his chest in an attempt to disperse the pinching ache there. 

“I’ll be there straight away,” Rosenbaum said, and the receiver clicked before Anatoly had even finished catching his breath. 

In a haze, he shuffled to the couch and burrowed into the quilt he had left there. His thoughts were a muddy, jumbled soup laced vaguely with guilt at having added one more patient to the list he had already foisted upon poor Rosenbaum, but Anatoly hadn’t the energy to spare for feeling guilty for long. All he could muster was to lie there and watch the short winter shadows dance across the floor. 

There was a knock at the front door, and before Anatoly could even contemplate moving, it swung open to reveal Dr. Rosenbaum, bundled in his great trench coat and scarf. Relief flooded through Anatoly at the sight, and he was too tired even to be angry at himself for leaving the door unlocked. He sat up and rubbed his eyes as Rosenbaum divested himself of his outerwear. 

Dr. Rosenbaum set his bag on the floor, fished out his stethoscope, and gave it a demonstrative shake. “In the interests of being thorough,” he said, “although I trust your judgment. And mine, given how your cough sounded over the phone.”

Anatoly begrudgingly shrugged himself out from under the quilt, shivering and hugging his arms around his chest. A small part of him felt embarrassed to be seen by the senior doctor like this, like a sickly little boy curling into his sweater for warmth, but the much, much larger part of Anatoly was feeling entirely too wretched to care. 

Rosenbaum pressed his large, blessedly still-cool-from-the-early-spring-air, palm to Anatoly’s forehead and nodded decisively. “Mmhhmm.”

Anatoly chuckled hoarsely, the sound more like the crackle of radio static than any discernible noise. “Not very scientific.”

“Do you have a number for me, then?”

“It was thirty-nine even, earlier this morning.”

“Mhhmm,” Rosenbaum hummed again, satisfied. He placed the stethoscope in his ears, then carefully insinuated the chest piece up underneath Anatoly’s sweater. Even though he pressed the instrument gently to Anatoly’s back, Anatoly could not suppress a slight jump when the icy metal made contact with his feverish skin. 

 “Breathe in.” 

Anatoly endeavored to follow Rosenbaum’s directive, but his breath snagged before he had finished inhaling it, and a coughing fit punched its way out from his lungs between desperate, gasping breaths. Dimly, he was aware of Rosenbaum rubbing his shoulder blade soothingly as he coughed. 

“It’s alright, Anatoly,” he said, voice low and gentle. “It’s alright.”

When at last the fit backed down enough for Anatoly to draw in one shaky breath after another, he peered at Doctor Rosenbaum through watery eyes and swiped the back of his hand across his cheeks to brush away the tears that had spilled over. 

Rosenbaum gave his shoulder a final squeeze before straightening up and removing the stethoscope from around his neck. “Well the good news is, your illness has not clouded your diagnostic capabilities.” He went back to his bag and exchanged his stethoscope for a small bottle of pills, which he handed to Anatoly. 

“For your bronchitis.”

Anatoly accepted them gratefully. “Thank you,” he said, only for his breath to hitch. “Heh’KSHHIEW!”

“And for you.” Anatoly raised his head, to see Rosenbaum holding out a container of soup to him. When Anatoly had blinked in astonished recognition of the object, Rosenbaum nodded and placed it on the table in the kitchen. He smiled. “When it’s not a midnight sandwich, I don’t mind being summoned to bring a little food.”

Anatoly’s chest felt tight in a new way, one that had nothing to do with his illness. “Thank you,” he said, even though the words felt inadequate. His vision was growing blurry again, and he pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes to stave off the growing wetness.

Rosenbaum, to his credit, did not comment on that. “I have to make sure you regain your strength,” he said, a devilish grin creeping across his lips. “How else am I suppose to work you like a horse to get my repayment for all this, eh?”

#my writing #ocs: anatoly #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #snzfic #sicktember 2022 #sicktember day 22

[groundcontrol21]

Time Sensitive (M, OC Drabble)

Ok you people have done something to me, because I used to hate fics that had characters with the fetish in them, and I wouldn’t touch anything approaching smut with a ten-foot pole and now... well here’s the closest thing I’ve written to porn ft. a gal who likes the snz and a partner who knows it.

Setting: some vague Caribbean port of call back in the days of sail when tall ships and ports of call were both still a thing. 

Mabelle awakes to gentle sunlight streaming from her window. The birds are twittering gently, as always on a warm spring morning, but not loudly enough to be what had woken her. She gives a huff and flips on her back, pulling her hay-stuffed pillow from under her head and pressing it down over her eyes; it is Saturday, and she isn’t going to be awake a second longer than she absolutely has to be 

She lies still on her back for a moment, listening to the unexpectedly noisy scratching of the fig tree branches against the open window shutters as the wind blows. Is it really that windy on a clear spring day like this? She sits up and throws aside her pillow in irritation. And isn’t that the reason she closed the shutters before going to bed last night in the first place? 

Movement at the corner of her eye catches Mabelle’s attention, and she might have screamed but the man who’d just come in from the window crosses the room in one step and pounces upon her, silencing her with a hand to her mouth. 

“Shhh, it’s just me!”

“Johnny!” Mabelle pants when he has removed his hand. She sinks back down into her lumpy mattress. “What are you doing here?”

Johnny is on his knees above her, straddling her hips on either side, still in his navy striped coat and trousers. It is a position this old, abused bed has borne many times before. “Got back just before dawn. Hhhh’NGSHH’uhhh!” He sneezes downward, at his chest, as though he could contain the spray that way, and yet Mabelle still feels some dot the lacy shoulder of her nightdress. She shivers. “Had to see you.”

From this angle, Mabelle can see the way Johnny’s nostrils quiver on each inhale, the way each swallow stutters around a sore throat. “You’re sick,” she says breathlessly, wiping away a stray bit of wetness that has leaked above his lip, raw and swollen. He sniffles as she did does it, and her belly pulls with warmth. 

“Bloody cold’s been making the rounds in the crew since we left Barranquilla,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t look altogether as miserable as a man with a raging headcold should, by all rights. “I’ve been holding out but—Heh’RRSHH!—I came down with it just in t-t-hi-t-hime—Hehh’RSHHHHOOO!”

The sneeze snaps him forward, and Johnny lets it carry him, such that he dips forward and catches it almost in the crook of Mabelle’s neck. Her hand finds its way to the back of his head, holding him there for a moment as he sniffles and regains his composure, and Mabelle loses hers entirely. 

“You could’ve had a rest first, you daft man,” she manages, her voice a whisper and about an octave lower in pitch. Perhaps he really, really should have, instead of coming here stinking of the sweat of a hundred men and killing her before she even has had the chance to wake up properly. She feels in a daze, her cheeks flushed and warm, her head floating. 

Johnny pulls back, shakes his head. “It’s one of them twenty-four hour things. Snf! And I started feeling it yesterday.” He smiles devilishly. His nose is running, spilling down his lip and he knows it. He has to. “What if I was all better before I got to see you? Ahhh’KCHOO!”

This time, he he turns so that the spray mottles Mabelle’s cheek, and she can’t help the way her hips buck at the sensation, nor can she reign in the tiny moan that escapes. Johnny scrunches his wet nostrils against his knuckles. “Snf! Christ, my nose.”

“Well, if the clock is ticking,” Mabelle says, unable to stand it any longer as she feels the warmth spread far beyond her stomach; she hitches up her nightdress and Johnny eagerly accepts the invitation. “We best not delay any further.”

#still pretty much a fade to black before any sort of spice #but still #this is like the f bomb a movie gets to throw in to see if it still gets to keep its rating lmao #my writing #my ocs #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #snz fic

[groundcontrol21]

Sicktember #14

Prompt #14: “I Might Be A Teeny Tiny Bit Sick, But It’s Fine”

Fandom: Three Musketeers

Title: Keeping Vigil

Summary: With his three brothers all sporting various injuries and in need of care themselves, Aramis ignores his own health as he tends to them. D’Artagnan is less than pleased to find this out, but can he do anything about it?

Notes/CW: I did not use the prompt verbatim in this, but it's practically all there (you'll see it) and it's fine. CW for mentions of and passing description of emeto-related things. Skip from "...the sound higher and more urgent this time" to "'Wait.' Aramis sighed" to skip over the paragraph.

D’Artagnan could not say how much time had actually passed, but it felt simultaneously as though he had passed a century and yet no time at all in a haze of pain and bandages and bitter-tasting tonics poured down his throat. He had half-memories of crying out and being soothed, thrashing and being stilled with a touch, but they were all distorted in a drugged fog. Now, though, he was sure he was waking more fully, blinking at unfamiliar walls and a throbbing ache in his leg that was splinted and covered in bandages. He was finally beginning to clear the worst of the drowsy, heavy feeling in his head, when he felt a convivial hand pat his shoulder, before helping him sit up to take another drink of water. 

“Congratulations,” he heard Aramis saying, “you are the first to remain fully conscious for more than an hour after their injury.”

“What’s my reward?” Even with the water, D’Artagnan’s voice still croaked from disuse, and he rubbed at his throat, trying to clear it. His leg gave a twinge.

“Consciousness.”

“Mmm,” D’Artagnan groaned as Aramis laughed, “I want a better one.”

Aramis’s brow furrowed. “Is the pain bad? I have a couple different tinctures—“

“Nothing yet.” D’Artagnan waved a hand and dragged himself up further against the headboard. “I want to extend my record.”

Aramis smiled cheekily, swiping his fingers quickly beneath his nose. “Perhaps it was a bit of an unfair game in any case, as you were heavily drugged.” His voice took on a serious note. “You were in a lot of pain.”

Thankfully, D’Artagnan could not remember much of how his leg had come to be bandaged and bound like a mummy, but the memory of his brothers falling alongside him shifted vaguely to the front of his mind with a shudder. “The others?” he asked. “Athos and Porthos?”

Aramis sniffled and gave a small cough before answering. “Porthos’s head sustained a major blow. He didn’t wake for a worryingly long period, but he’s been awake now here and there, long enough for me to check on him.” Aramis blew out a breath, and added, as if an intercession, an afterthought. “He’s getting better, slowly but surely.”

“Good.”

“And Athos, he was doing almost the best of us all, his stomach wound stitched up nicely, until a little infection set in.” He sighed shakily, the sound almost snagging on another cough. “It was… scary for a little while, but the fever is low and I’ve been draining the wound. He should heal well in time.”

“Good.”

“I’ve informed Treville that we will remain here until everyone is fit to ride back to Paris, or at least until we can manage a cart for you to ride in with that leg of yours, since I suspect that will take the longest.”

Aramis sniffled again, and D’Artagnan could maybe excuse it, could chalk it up to the herbs in some poultice or another bothering him, if his cheeks did not appear slightly flushed, if his voice was not seeming hoarser and hoarser the more they spoke and the more alert D’Artagnan became. 

D’Artagnan cocked his head. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

Aramis wrinkled his nose in thought for a moment, before saying, “That you could use a bit of a shave?” 

A quick palm over his jaw told D’Artagnan this observation probably had some merit, but Aramis cleared his throat, and D’Artagnan would not let the man get away with deliberate redirection. “Anything else?”

But perhaps there was nothing deliberate about it, for Aramis crinkled his brow again, pondering deeply as though D’Artagnan had set him a riddle, even as he sniffled again and wiped at his nose. 

D’Artagnan sighed. “I mean, about you?” 

Aramis looked up at him in surprise, sniffling wetly. 

“And why you’re doing that?”

Aramis’s already pinkish cheeks blushed scarlet, and he gave another small cough. “There is a chance,” Aramis said, sighing, “that I might—potentially—be a little bit sick, but it’s fine.”

“I assume you haven’t informed the others about this hypothetical illness?”

“Of course not,” Aramis said, right according to cue. “They, much like you, have enough to trouble themselves over already.” He sniffled again and tried giving his nose another wipe, but this time it was not enough, and he shook with two tightly stifled sneezes. “Heh’KNGT! Eh’KNXT!”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes as the man produced a handkerchief from his pocket and gave his nose a blow that was simultaneously the quietest and wettest thing he had ever heard. “Have you taken anything for your theoretical congestion?”

“I brewed myself some tea earlier.” When D’Artagnan continued to look unimpressed, Aramis sighed. “I have another pot of water on the boil now, and if I have any left over after wound cleanings and no one else wakes up and needs any, I’ll breathe in some steam.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine, D’Artagnan, there’s truly no need to worry.”

When D’Artagnan assured him that he did not want another draught of pain medicine for the time being, Aramis took to the chair which sat at the front of the room, perched in a strategic location which allowed him to oversee all goings-on of the makeshift infirmary like the benevolent tyrant he was. All was silent for a little while, and D’Artagnan contented himself with listening to the deep, snore-like breaths of Porthos in the bed across from him, and watching the chest of the Athos-shaped lump in the bed at the back wall rise and fall melodically. 

Then of course, there were the sniffles and snuffles and increasingly erratic breaths from the fourth member of their brotherhood, which crescendoed at last out of his grasp and into two more hastily stifled sneezes. 

“Ihh’NKSHHT! Hhh’IXT!” He blew his nose again, so softly that had D’Artagnan not been listening for it he might not have noticed it. 

“Well, I already know you’re sick, so there’s nothing to hide,” D’Artagnan said. “No use doing that.”

“Hmm?” Aramis gave a congested hum, and regarded D’Artagnan over the folds of his handkerchief with eyes so glassy and tired it was a wonder they stayed open. He sniffled, completely blocked-up again, but tucked his handkerchief away nonetheless. 

“Holding them in like that. It can’t be comfortable.”

“I don’t want to wake anyone.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes and cupped a hand to his mouth. “Athos! Porthos!”

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis hissed, horrified. “Stop it!”

“They’re stealing the wine! They’re stealing all the food!” D’Artagnan called, but his brothers slept away, the patterns of their breathing not so much as having changed. He turned his attention back to Aramis and fixed him with a smug look. “See? Nothing. Just let yourself sneeze, for God’s sake.”

It was Aramis’s turn to look completely put-out. Still, the next sneezes which assaulted him were not stifled, merely muffled into the fabric of his handkerchief. “Heh’shoo! Ehh’hehh’shoo! Hish’huhhh!” Somehow, the sound was still entirely shy and mouselike, and D’Artagnan still reasoned that those couldn’t be entirely unrestrained or natural. 

He let his thoughts drift for a little while, only coming back to awareness when a bit of shuffling and squirming in the bed at the wall across from him caught his attention. “Athos looks a little restless,” he noted.

D’Artagnan looked over at Aramis, and his heart broke at the sight of the man sitting in the chair, staring off into space with half-lidded eyes, his mouth parted slightly to breathe as he rubbed his nose absently with his handkerchief. D’Artagnan immediately felt guilty for having said anything at all, and this guilt multiplied tenfold when the meaning of his words finally broke through Aramis’s fog and sent the man rocketing from his seat with a handful of throaty coughs. 

His feverish eyes landed on the clock on the wall, then darted to where Athos lay, writhing slightly. “Oh, damn, it’s time for another fever reducer!”

“I’ll get it,” D’Artagnan said, and threw the blanket off from his body.

“No you won’t, D’Artagnan!” He called as he rushed to the table to prepare the dose, crushing leaves beneath his pestle, which he brandished in D’Artagnan’s direction when the man tried to swing his legs around to the floor. “Stay there, or I’ll hit you!”

A low voice from across the room mumbled, just loudly enough to hear, “Can’t hit D’Artagnan, he’s hurt.”

“Porthos!” Aramis cried, nearly upending the bowl of herbs. “I’ll be right with you. How are you feeling?”

Porthos’s reply was a long groan that, all things considered, D’Artagnan could very much identify with. The throbbing in his own leg was becoming persistently harder to ignore, but he would be absolutely damned if he mentioned this to Aramis before had treated everyone else.

He noticed the way Aramis’s hands, normally steady and sure, were anything but as he prepared the herbs to steep. There was a frenetic quality to his movements that worried D’Artagnan, and he held his breath as Aramis poured the water he had been boiling into a cup, hands shaking so badly D’Artagnan was sure the man would burn himself. 

He saw the pallor of Aramis’s skin stood in contrast to the red set high on his cheeks, and D’Artagnan could not help but say, “Maybe you should make yourself a fever-reducing draught, Aramis.”

That earned him the type of glare from Aramis that could kill lesser men surer and swifter than any sword strike or musket ball. 

“Aramis?” Porthos said dazedly. “Thought Athos had the fever.”

“He does,” Aramis said darkly, adding cool water to the cup so the mixture would be a suitable temperature for Athos to drink. “D’Artagnan’s pain draught makes him say odd things.”

“Mmm,” Porthos hummed, still sounding confused. “Hate head wounds.” D’Artagnan nodded his commiseration to the man, before belatedly realizing Porthos had closed his eyes again. 

Aramis had taken the fever tea to Athos and was helping the sedate man tip his head up enough to drink it, when Porthos groaned again, the sound higher and more urgent this time. “Gonna be sick.”

Aramis paused, the cup at Athos’s lips. “Can you…” He broke off, the sound of Porthos’s retching permeating the room and rendering the rest of his question unnecessary. “Wait.” Aramis sighed. “I guess not.”

“I’m sorry,” Porthos said miserably.

“No, it’s my fault,” Aramis rushed to assure him. “I didn’t put the bucket back after I cleaned it last.” D’Artagnan followed his gaze to the aforementioned bucket, which still sat by the hearth. “Just give me one moment.”

Aramis was still coaxing a mostly-unconscious Athos to drink his tea, and quite honestly looking a good deal worse than the man in the bed as he did so. That decided it for D’Artagnan, who swung his legs over the side of the bed. It would be hard going, but there were enough things he could grab onto between his bed, the bucket, and Porthos’s bed to steady him, and if not, D’Artagnan was sure he could hop on one leg for a bit. His balance was good enough.

He maneuvered himself to standing by using the bedframe. There was pain in his leg of course, but that pain had been there even when he was lying down, and he wasn’t even sure standing had worsened it at all. D’Artagnan grabbed for the wall a bit ahead of him and took a jump, but failed to anticipate how much the jolting impact would send shockwaves through his injured leg despite it not touching anything. He grimaced, and could not bite back his moan.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” Aramis shouted.

“Getting the bucket,” he ground back through gritted teeth. He tried for another small hop, but he was sweating now, the pain almost unbearable, and black dotted his vision. 

D’Artagnan lost track of how long he stood there, breathing heavily and willing himself not to collapse, but a hand appeared, warm and steadying at his back. 

“Drink this for the pain,” Aramis said in his ear, “and I’ll help you back to bed.”

D’Artagnan accepted the cup without question and threw back the bitter liquid in one gulp. He leaned heavily on Aramis as the man half-dragged him back to his bed, all of his limbs progressively leaden and uncooperative, and fell into unconsciousness just as soon as he was lying down once more.

***************

D’Artagnan blinked sluggishly back to awareness, feeling as though he’d swum through molasses and was just trying to break the surface. His head lolled to the side as his thoughts came trudging back to him, and he saw that the floor beside Porthos’s bed had been cleaned and the bucket replaced after all. 

He sought out Aramis next, who was watching him from his chair. “You drugged me,” he mumbled, tongue still slow and heavy. 

“You were due for another round of your pain draught soon anyway. Heh’NGSHHH’uhh! Snf!” Palming his throat, Aramis winced and strained painfully to swallow in the aftermath, the motion taking far more time and energy than it should have. 

D’Artagnan took a breath and reminded himself that strangling the man would do his sore throat no favors. “You need to tell them,” he said firmly. 

Aramis laughed airily. “That I gave you a dose slightly early so you wouldn’t hobble off again and damage yourself further? I don’t think so.”

D’Artagnan’s mouth did not so much as twitch. “Aramis.”

The humor bled from Aramis’s face as he sighed, congested. “Why? I can’t think of a single reason why they need to know.”

“Because we don’t hide things from each other, Aramis,” D’Artagnan said simply. “You know that.”

“It isn’t hiding if it never comes up! It will only make things harder for me, as you’re doing right now. Each of you should only be worrying about getting better yourselves, not worrying about me as well.”

“You don’t get to make that decision for us!”

“What do you want me to say, D’Artagnan?” Aramis cried in a rare display of temper. But as quickly as it had come, it fled from him, leaving him somehow more deflated and weary than he had been before. “Yes, I’m sick. I’m tired, I’m achy, I have a fever, my head is pounding, my throat is killing me, I keep sneezing, and I can hardly see straight. But I’m not the priority right now. Someone has to care for all of you, and I can do it. So just let me.”

Aramis went to the worn journal that lay open on the table near the door. D’Artagnan knew from experience it was there he kept notes of what tinctures he had given and when, observations of wounds and swellings as the days progressed, jotted bits and pieces of passing knowledge he heard from traveling physicians. D’Artagnan craned his neck to watch as Aramis scribbled a few notes, before scrunching his nose against his wrist. 

“Heh’KNXT! Ihhh’KSHT! Snf!” Aramis shook his head briefly before writing a few more sentences and laying down his quill. He moved toward D’Artagnan’s bed, but he had hardly taken a step before he wobbled precariously, legs trembling. 

Aramis clamped a hand over his eyes and moaned softly. After a few shaky seconds, he changed course and dropped back into his chair with another moan, his face ghostly pale and cheeks flushed scarlet. He reclined his head against the wall. 

“Aramis,” D’Artagnan said, feeling his own chest grow tight with worry. “You need to lie down.”

Aramis’s hand dropped to his lap, but his eyes were still shut tight, his voice thin and tired. “I can’t exactly physically do that, now can I?”

D’Artagnan blinked. “What?”

“Look around, D’Artagnan.” His eyes cracked open.  “There are only three beds in this room.”

“So where have you been sleeping?” 

Aramis patted the chair, and though it had been the answer D’Artagnan was expecting, it did nothing to stifle his cry of horror. 

“Aramis!”

“It’s easier this way, anyway, in case one of you needs something,” he said placatingly. “Quick access.” 

D’Artagnan thought a moment, then scooted until his back was flush with the wall, and patted the newly vacated space on his mattress. “Come lie down beside me, then. It will be just like sharing a pack while we camp.”

It was Aramis’s turn to look horrified. “No,” he said with a sniffle and a rub at his nose.  “You don’t want to catch this.”

“So it is bad, then?”

“Your body is under enough stress as it is, trying to heal your leg. It doesn’t need to add anything else to the mix.”

“We’ll switch places, then. Help me to the chair, and then you take my place and lie down.” Aramis opened his mouth, but D’Artagnan cut him off before he could begin speaking. “Don’t argue. It’ll be good for me to be upright for a little bit.” When the man still looked extremely perturbed at the prospect, D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “Aramis, I’ll be in a chair, not sparring.”

Aramis shook his head. “I can’t be in your bed. You still might fall ill that way.”

“Can you take an infection just by using the same bedclothes?”

“Why else do you think they burn them after a patient has died of plague?”

“We’ll ask the innkeeper for new ones,” D’Artagnan promised. “We have hours yet before nightfall, we’ll think of something.” The man still made no move to rise, and at this point, D’Artagnan was not above begging like a child. “Please, Aramis, just lie down and rest.”

Aramis hunched forward like a marionette with its strings cut. “Alright.” 

He helped D’Artagnan out of the bed again, fussing at nearly each breath D’Artagnan took. “I’m fine, Aramis,” he assured him truthfully. “The pain draught is still working well.”

With Aramis’s aid, he hobbled to the chair, and the movement this time went much more smoothly. He sank into the chair with a contented sigh, and just so Aramis could not misconstrue the exhalation as a noise of pain, he was sure to add, “It feels nice to be sitting for a change.”

Once Aramis was satisfied that D’Artagnan was not lying and would not, indeed, spontaneously break the rest of the bones in his body merely by virtue of not lying down, Aramis went to lie down himself. He made a noise, half-moan and half-sigh, that sounded so relieved as he melted into the bed and into a heap beneath the covers in one fluid motion, that D’Artagnan felt some tension from his own shoulders relax in sympathy. 

But Aramis’s relief was short lived; though he looked half asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, his body had other plans. “Heh’TSCHOO! Heh’KSHHoo! Snf! Hhh’ihh’ISHHH! Snf! Snf! AHH’KSHH’uhh!”  His sneezes, one after the other, were completely exhausted, and he coughed wetly in the aftermath, a fit which had him burrowing into the blanket as he shivered and tried to regain control of himself. He sounded absolutely miserable, and D’Artagnan wished he could rub his back, knowing how much Aramis craved physical touch as comfort. 

Aramis groaned once the fit had stopped, the sound hoarse and crackling. “Now you definitely need new bedsheets.”

“Yes, Aramis,” D’Artagnan said, doing his best to keep the note of exasperation from his voice. “We’ll sort it, don’t worry. Just sleep.”

But the instruction proved a bit supercilious, as the room filled with the congested snores the instant D’Artagnan had finished speaking. He smiled to himself, and settled into the chair for a bit of a vigil of his own. 

#sick ara/mis #doctor heal thyself am i right #i will never get tired of the self-sacrificing trope #nor the 'doctor cannot care for themselves' trope #sicktember 2022 #sicktember day 14 #more muskie snz!!! #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #my writing #snzfic

[groundcontrol21]

Sicktember #12

Prompt #12: Psychogenic Fever/Stress Induced Illness

Fandom: All Creatures Great and Small (TV)

Title: Stretched Thin

Summary: After taking on the brunt of the work at the practice while Siegfried and Tristan are away, is it any wonder all the stress causes James Heriot to fall ill? Still, there’s no rest for him, not when a difficult bovine birth case needs his attention.

James Heriot went to sleep a bit more tired than usual, and woke with his alarm the next morning feeling as though he had been trampled by every one of his equine patients. It took every ounce of energy he had to lift himself off the pillow and sit upright; once he was vertical and had broken through the inertia, he felt only marginally less miserable, terrible shivers assaulting him as his blankets slipped away. 

The one consolation was that Tristan was not there to chatter at him from the adjoining room; he and Siegfried were away in York for a conference (Siegfried having cajoled Tristan to follow by means of various threats). But then again, it was probably just as much the fault of this fact that James was ill in the first place: between covering all of Siegfried’s patients this week and seeing to the preliminary rounds of judging for the spring fair last week, he had been run absolutely ragged. No, it was not surprising that his immune system had chosen this time to fail, only supremely disappointing.

James dressed himself in his warmest sweater, despite the fact that it was almost May, and took three handkerchiefs with him instead of one. Feeling as though he were moving through treacle, he shuffled down the stairs to the kitchen, wishing he could have tucked a blanket round his shoulders to chase away his chills.

Mrs. Hall was at the stovetop, frying up eggs and sausage. James was forced to stop in the doorway to the kitchen, clinging to the frame for support with one hand and clutching his handkerchief to his face with the other. Helpless, he curled forward and buried his nose in the cloth. “Heh’ITSHHH’ooo! Ihh’hehh’HISHHH! Snf! Ihhh… Snf! HESHHOOO!”

Blinking blearily and believing himself done for the moment, James shuffled to the table and plopped heavily down in his usual chair. But the reprieve was merely a pause, for he shot forward with another desperate sneeze, barely managing to smother it with the handkerchief. “HESHH’uhh! Snf!” He groaned softly and blew his nose, quiet as he could so as not to be utterly disgusting, in the aftermath.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hall said worriedly. James shut his eyes as his head pounded, feeling her place the back of her hand against his forehead. She tsked reproachfully at the warmth she found there. “You’ve been stretched far too thin recently. That’s why you’ve come down ill.”

He agreed with her assessment completely, but before he could tell her so, the phone rang, the tinny sound sending jolts of pain through his aching head. James’s eyes slitted open at the sound. “And I’m about to be stretched even thinner, I’d imagine.” 

Before she could stop him, he hauled himself to his feet to answer the phone. “James Heriot speaking.”

“It’s Mary Dawson,” the caller said, and James recognized both the voice and the name as belonging to the owner of a pregnant cow with no shortage of issues. “I’m sorry to call so early but it’s Rosie. She’s gone into labor but something… Something just isn’t right with her.”

James nodded; from all the pains and troubles he or Siegfried had been called to investigate throughout the pregnancy, he was not surprised that the birth should prove difficult as well. “I’ll be there in half an hour,” he said resolutely, and hung up the phone. Just as soon as he had placed the receiver back, he bent double with an explosive sneeze. “Heh’RSHHHH’uhh! Snf! Heh’ISHHHH!”

“I know my ears must be stuffed with cotton,” Mrs. Hall said disapprovingly, “because I know I didn’t just hear you agree to go out like this.”

James blinked up at her, bleary and sniffling. “I have to, Mrs. Hall.” He wiped at his nose with his handkerchief, tucking it away and continuing when Mrs. Hall continued to look less than impressed. “The Dawson’s cow is birthing her problem calf, the one that’s been giving her trouble through the whole pregnancy. Someone has to be there.”

Mrs. Hall chewed her lip, then sighed and said, “Hopefully Siegfried and Tristan will be home by the time you get back. That way I can send you off to bed and tie you down if you won’t stay.”

James opened his mouth to chuckle, but a sneeze escaped him instead. “That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Hall,” he assured her truthfully, for even now there was nothing more he’d like to do than collapse back into bed and sleep until this dreadful flu had passed him by. 

As a condition for allowing him to go (as if she honestly could have stopped him), Mrs. Hall ensured James was bundled in an overcoat and scarf. Despite his initial protestations–it was spring after all–James soon found himself quite glad of her foresight as he made the drive through the fine morning mist to the Dawson’s farm. The layers helped keep his shivering to a minimum, though the bone-deep ache that made even turning the steering wheel a monumental effort assured him that, if he did not have one already, a fever was surely on his way. 

As soon as James exited the car, he was greeted by the Dawsons and one of their daughters, each one of them hovering with a tension taught enough to make a rope snap. Mr. Dawson held out his hand for a shake, but all James could do, in the midst of hitching breaths, was shake his head frantically. 

The sneezes came on too quickly for James to fish out a handkerchief, so he muffled them into the knit of his scarf instead. “Heh’KMPFFF! Hehhh’RMMPHHH!” He emerged from the fabric, snuffling and coughing slightly. “I’m quite ill at the moment,” he said, “so–snf!--perhaps we’d better not.”

Mr. Dawson nodded in silent acceptance; whether he could not speak or merely preferred not to, James was not sure, but regardless, he left all the talking to his wife. Mrs. Dawson clucked her tongue and beckoned for her daughter.

“Lily,” she said, waving vaguely in the direction of the house, “go make the poor boy some tea.”

The girl nodded and took off. “Yes, mummy.”

Mrs. Dawson turned back to James with an apologetic look. “We’re terribly sorry to drag you out when you’re poorly.”

“No, none of that,” James tried to assure her, wishing his voice didn’t sound quite so much like he had swallowed half the gravel road. “You did the right thing.” 

Mrs. Dawson cast him one more meek and doubtful look, before she and her husband led James to the pen where Rosie was being kept. The Dawson’s eldest son, Ralph or Roger or something of that nature, was waiting by the gate to the pen. When he saw James approach, he removed his cap and stuck out his hand. At any other time, James would have appreciated the good manners that ran in the family, but at the moment it was rankling him to have to keep admitting to being unwell, even though from his general state of being it was surely a bit obvious.

James dipped away from the boy. “Heh’KSHHH’ooo! Snf!” He swiped a quick knuckle at his nose. “Sorry,” he croaked. “I’ve come down with something.” The boy retracted his hand and watched him warily, causing James to add, “I’ll do my best not to let it spread to you.”

The Dawsons and their boy followed James into the pen as he slowly approached the cow, who had pressed herself to the fencing and was lowing in pain. James examined her and found the cause of her distress quite quickly; the calf which had been causing her agony throughout its gestation was not leaving without a final fight. The calf was completely twisted, opposite of the direction in which it should be delivered, and would decidedly not come out without assistance. 

James poked and prodded, trying to decipher the most effective and least painful way to coax the calf from its mother. He felt the presence of the Dawson couple close at his back, their combined shadow obscuring what he needed to see, and he bit back a sigh, working to keep his illness-shortened temper from creeping into his voice and making it sharp.

“If you could keep your distance,” he said mildly. His breath hitched, and he twisted violently to the side, sneezing openly on account of his hands being otherwise occupied (and dirty besides). “Ahhh’TSCHHHH!” He sniffled back the wetness the expulsion had sent forth, laughing a bit in embarrassment. He felt his cheeks color. “For multiple reasons.”

Mrs. Dawson swatted her husband on the shoulder, then shuffled them both backward to a more comfortable distance. “We’re sorry.”

“Hehhh’ISSHHHH’uhh! Snf! It’s alright. I know how nerve wracking this must be for the both of you.”

The Dawsons both nodded, and James felt guilty at his prior irritation. Still, his aches and shivers were redoubling, and it took all of his limited focus to ignore how he felt in favor of aiding Rosie and the calf. Still, he had a job to do, and damn his flu, he would complete it (and be a pile of misery later).

After a sweaty, almost nauseatingly tense stretch of time, James was finally able to birth the calf. He sighed, which gave way to a fit of coughs, when the deed was finally done, and both mother and baby were alive and well.

“Oh my God!” Mrs. Dawson gasped, her hands flying to her mouth at the sight of the calf and its mother, both dripping with blood.

“The blood’s just from a little tear since the calf was in such a bad orientation,” James rushed to reassure her, feeling again at Rosie and nodding in confirmation when he felt the small laceration. “Help me sedate her and I’ll sew her up, and she should be good as new.”

With a brisk nod, Mr. Dawson went to stroke the cow’s head as James retrieved the tranquilizer from his bag. Even without words, the man’s presence seemed to calm the animal greatly, for she hardly flinched at the injection. Gently, he helped James guide Rosie to lie on her side in the hay.

Within ten minutes, the laceration was stitched and cleaned, and James straightened up, wiping his hands on a towel. All that was left now was to wait for the cow to wake, and then he could be on his way. The knowledge that his job here would so soon be over snatched away whatever vitality the adrenaline of the situation had given him, and James swayed precariously on his feet. 

Mrs. Dawson was at his side instantly, clutching at his arm. “Oh, come on and sit down. Your color’s gone.” James allowed her to lead him over to a milking stool and press her rough palm against his forehead. “You have a fever, you poor thing.”

James all but shoved her away in his desperation not to sneeze on her. “Ihh’TSSHOOO! You shouldn’t–Ahh’KSHHH!--stand so close. Snf!”

Mrs. Dawson laughed. “I have four children,” she said. “I don’t think there’s anything new left for me to catch.” She stroked his head briefly, and James almost moaned at the loveliness of the feeling, professionalism be damned. 

“Come inside a moment before you go,” she added softly. “We’ll see where that girl and her tea got off to.”

James gave a shaky, raspy laugh and conceded to being ushered indoors, feeling the rawness in his throat and suddenly wanting the tea more than anything in the world. Tea, drive, then bed at last, he resolved, happy to hopefully leave any of the rest of the day’s excitement to Siegfried or Tristan. In his opinion, he had earned a little break for himself. 

#please excuse any veterinary inaccuracies #i will do a lot of research for my snz fics #but watching cows give birth is where i draw the line lol #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #my writing #snzfic #acgas #sick j/ames heriot #do not reblog to non kink blogs #sicktember 2022 #sicktember day 12

[groundcontrol21]

Recitations (M, Musketeers)

An answer to my previous Musketeers story, but a bit different. In this one, Athos is still drinking and Aramis is still sick, but Athos is significantly less of a b!tch to Aramis. Quite the opposite in fact ;)

Also for @seasnz, since it's Athos/Aramis :)))

****

A soft October rain patters against the windowpane as Athos uncorks the night’s second bottle of wine, pouring it slowly into his glass cup. He is not far-gone enough yet to drink straight from the bottle, but he does not discount the possibility. He raises the glass to his lips, then almost spills it down his chest when the door to his bedroom crashes open. 

Aramis enters in a flourish and hangs his hat and coat on a peg, brushing off stray rain droplets. He beams at Athos, easily, as though he had been invited here in the first place. 

Athos rolls his eyes and sets the glass back down. “Is knocking now beneath you?”

“Your candle was lit and I saw you drinking alone,” Aramis says simply, gesturing at the window, and Athos resolves to never again light a candle at night without drawing his curtains. “I figured you would enjoy my company.”

“More so than Porthos?”

“Tavern is too noisy,” Aramis says, taking a seat at Athos’ desk chair and reclining his head back against the wall. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, and his eyes flutter shut. “This, on the other hand, is just perfect.”

“Headache?”

“Mmm,” Aramis hums, rubbing at his eyes. All at once, he crashes forward into steepled hands with a sneeze– “Heh’PTSHHH!”--then another– “Ihh’KSHHH!”-- and another– “Heh’ISHHH’uhh!”, and Athos knows what the problem is at once. His heart pulls with altogether more concern than is necessary (good God, the man has a cold, for heaven’s sake), and he is grateful when Aramis manages to produce his own handkerchief, saving Athos from the accusations of mother-henning he would receive if he offered the man his own.

“I see,” Athos says profoundly, observing his friend with a wince as he makes copious use of the cloth. Then, as Aramis lets the handkerchief fall to his lap, Athos narrows his eyes. “Weren’t you going on about an appointment with Madame Boucher tonight?”

“Canceled it.”

“Over a little headcold?” Athos scoffs as Aramis clears his throat, congested. “I hope it was not your vanity speaking, for I’m sure you could charm the slip off any woman even half-dead of the pox.”

“Not feeling well enough that it would be enjoyable,” Aramis says simply, hoarsely, as though the admission did not just send shockwaves through the mounting concern Athos is trying resolutely to ignore. Athos sips his wine to give his mouth something to do that is not something stupid like coo at him like a nursemaid.

Aramis’s cheeks part in a smile, his smile, and Athos instantly feels a bit of the worry slip off him like rainwater. “Besides, I would hate to pass on the affliction to such a lovely lady.”

Athos smirks. “But you have no similar reservations about passing it on to me.”

“Your constitution is far less delicate,” Aramis says dismissively, gesturing at the empty bottle of wine, before grinning again. “And anyway, I am hardly as close to you as I would be to Madame Boucher.”

Athos takes another drink and holds the wine in his mouth, considering the feel of it against the insides of his cheeks in an attempt not to consider why he feels flustered and a bit sad at the truth that Aramis has just pointed out. He swallows, wishing now he had opened one of his cheaper bottles; there is not enough of a sour burn from the Sauvignon to serve as an adequate distraction.

“Eh’KETCHH! Snf!” Aramis sneezes again, catches his breath momentarily, then heaves a crackling cough into the crook of his arm. Once he is finished, he swipes the back of his hand across watery eyes and leans back in his chair again with a shaky, controlled sigh.

Athos winces. “Why not go to bed then?”

“It’s far too early for that, on a Friday night,” Aramis says, even as his voice is thin and cracked. He kicks his feet up on the table, crossing his arms behind his head, and the sight of his boots, caked with mud and peeling, on his table is enough to banish any concern Athos has for the man and replace it with the desire to punch him.  “The tavern was far too loud, I’m in the mood for conversation, et voilà!” He opens his arms in a grand, sweeping gesture. “Here I am.”

Athos rolls his eyes and buries his words in his glass as he takes another sip. “Lucky me.”

Aramis sneezes again, and damn him, the sound is raw and scraping. The feeling tugging at Athos’s belly, the one he might describe (disgustingly and inappropriately) as tenderness returns. Aramis beckons to him, waving his handkerchief. “Pass me some wine, Athos.”

“Not with a headcold like that,” Athos says, more firmly than intended. His fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle as he pours himself some more, and why does doing so feel like a betrayal? He cloaks his private inanities in a pompous hum. “Besides, I’m not about to waste my fine Sauvignon on a man who can’t taste it.”

At this, Aramis merely sticks out his tongue, a gesture Athos replies to with a well-chosen finger of his own. For a few blessed moments, Athos enjoys his wine in relative silence, the only sounds the pattering rain and Aramis’ sniffles and sneezes. 

But then, Aramis shoots upright, his feet crashing to the floor, the sound perfectly synchronized with a hearty burst of rain outside. “Oh, I was supposed to read the madame some of my poetry tonight.” Aramis sighs like a dramatic hero in the theatre, slumping back despondently in the chair, flashing a delicate palm across his eyes. 

In an instant, though, he perks up again, eager as a rabbit, all drama forgotten. “I could read it to you instead.”

“That will not be necessary.” 

Aramis pouts at him like a child, and the wine must be going straight through him tonight, Athos thinks, because that is surely the only explanation for why he feels the need to soothe the frown from his friend’s face. “Come,” Athos says, softening, “you’ll lose your voice before you finish three stanzas.”

Aramis huffs; the congested noise snags on a couple coughs. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

“Oh, but they are such fine poems, Athos,” Aramis says, his voice almost beseeching. “Love poems. I think you would enjoy them.”

Athos pauses, the flagon halfway to his lips. “Then you don’t know me as well as I thought you did, mon ami, for I think all things of the sort are pointless drivel.” He speaks a bit harshly, more so than he had intended, but that is fine if that is what is necessary to stop Aramis from going down whatever road it is that he seems intent on traveling. 

“That’s because you haven’t heard the right poems,” Aramis says. “My poems.” As if his poems were the missing piece that kept the Philistines from being each one of them prodigies of the arts, and the confidence of his voice… Athos uncrosses his legs, silently blaspheming the name of everything the godly man holds dear. 

“Ah, but they are all the way at the garrison in my room,” Aramis sighs forlornly, and Athos has never heard sweeter words in his lifetime. He releases a breath through his tight throat, relaxes against the back of his chair once more, and tops off his glass. His hand hardly even shakes as he raises the glass to his lips.

“Let’s see what I remember.”

Athos chokes on the wine.

Aramis begins his recitation. The man learned to write at the seminary, this Athos knows, but surely they did not teach him to write like this. In the early days of their marriage, Athos had read to Her from the Song of Solomon, but Aramis’s cantos make the book seem like the innocent musings of a choirboy, the innuendos here even more scantily hidden. But what is worse—the poem is actually good. Excellent, even. But Athos can hardly focus on the words any more than to hear them in Aramis’s low, hoarse voice as he recites borderline obscenities, the cadence growing and building, and Athos wonders if this is what he sounds like when… No. Athos crosses his legs, uncrosses them, shifts forward on the chair, shifts back, but even his own skin is uncomfortable at this point and it is no use.  

Finally, Aramis droops back down in his chair with a sigh. “The rest escapes me.” He bends double as coughs scrape painfully past his throat, and Athos takes the blessed respite as a moment to collect himself, not trusting the noise that would come out of him should he open his mouth. 

“That’s for the best, you daft man,” Athos says croakily after a while, and he has never spoken truer words in his life. He was right not to trust his voice, but Aramis is too caught up in his coughing fit to notice. When the fit shows little sign of stopping, Athos quickly pours wine into a small pewter cup and takes it to Aramis. 

“Here, take some for your throat.”

Aramis accepts the cup, tipping it to his lips. He peers at Athos, wide-eyed, over the rim. “I thought you didn’t want to waste—“

“Shut up.”

Their fingers brush as Athos takes the cup from him to refill it, and anything Athos might have felt at the contact is overshadowed by how hot Aramis’s skin feels. Athos sets the wine aside and presses his palm to Aramis’s forehead, frowning at the clammy heat he feels there. 

“You didn’t mention a fever.”

“Mmm?” Aramis blinks at him, a bit dazed, and Athos wonders how it took him this long to notice the glassy sheen to his eyes. “And how do you know it isn’t just the flush brought on by reciting such passionate verse?” Aramis says cheekily, and Athos is tempted to hunt down a bucket of ice water large enough for both of them to dunk their heads in. 

Aramis sneezes again and again. “Heh’TSHHH’uhh! Ehh’hihhh’HISHHH’uhh! Snf!” He groans loudly, his eyes screwed shut. Athos pats the man’s head, letting his fingers linger at Aramis’s temples, kneading a little, because he knows how much Aramis likes it when Porthos strokes his hair after a nightmare, and Athos never thought he would get the chance to do it, too. 

Aramis cracks an eye open at him, and Athos instantly removes his hand. “Go lie down,” he grumbles instead.

“On your bed?” Aramis asks, sounding suddenly as innocent as a child who has been granted an extra round of sweets. 

Athos clears his throat and looks away. “Unless you’d prefer the floor.”

Aramis, the fiendish man, winks at him before making his way, admittedly a bit shakily, over to the bed. He undresses down to his small clothes, far more slowly than is at all necessary or proper, and Athos has to look at the wall and dig his fingernail into the pad of his thumb to keep himself grounded. Mentally, he chides himself; how many times has he watched his brothers-in-arms change out of their clothing? How many times has he himself been the one to aid them when one was sick or injured. Still, though, between that display and the bloody winking, Athos is tempted to revoke his offer of his bed to Aramis and, to hell with sleeping on the floor, just bury the man beneath the boards instead.

Aramis slips beneath the covers, tucking them up to his chin. Once Athos has made sure Aramis is comfortable, he retrieves his waterskin, still full from the afternoon on account of the evening’s alternate beverage choices. Athos uses it to soak his handkerchief, then folds the cloth and lays it across Aramis’s pinched brow. It’s not ice water, but it is far cooler than Aramis currently is. 

Aramis sighs in relief, melting further into the pillow, and Athos’s own shoulders unclench in sympathy. Athos applies a gentle pressure to the cloth with his fingers, and is gratified when Aramis sighs again. 

Aramis peers up at him from beneath the cold cloth, eyes half-covered as though peeking out from underneath a ridiculous hat, and takes Athos’s hand. He speaks the first line of his poem again, his voice even huskier than before, and as if that weren’t enough, he presses a kiss to Athos’s knuckles. His fever-bright eyes never break their contact with Athos’.

Athos feels his cheeks burn and wonders if it is possible he has already caught the man’s fever. His voice certainly sounds little better than Aramis’ when he manages to choke out, “Just close your eyes, for God’s sake.”

Aramis obeys, but continues to speak, and–damn it–Athos should have ordered him to shut his mouth instead. “You liked them, didn’t you,” Aramis says, and it is not a question but a statement of fact. “The poems. I saw it on your face.”

“My face?”

Aramis’s eyes slit open again, and he smiles. It is a more private thing now, more intimate and less teasing. “You are not as subtle as you think you are, dear Athos.”

It happens then, as Athos leans forward. He tells himself the motion is to check Aramis’ fever, to fluff the pillows and make him comfortable, but whatever reason his mind might conjure, the rest of him finds reason and answer in Aramis’ lips as they meet his. The man’s breath is hot, wet puffs of congestion as he gasps around the kiss for air.

“Mmm,” Aramis hums softly, and Athos nearly groans when he pulls away slightly. His eyes are gleaming and his face is flushed, but Athos would be a fool to attribute the whole of his appearance to his illness. “Now you are definitely getting as close to me as I would be with Madame Boucher. Snf! Ehh’TSHHHoo!”

Athos does not care, and he tells him as much, pulling him close again. 

(When he wakes two days later with a throat seemingly cut by glass and a head stopped full of congestion, he will wish he cared a bit more, but even so, he will never, ever regret this night. Of that much, he is certain.)

#my writing #you guessed it #sick ara/mis #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #snzfic #do not reblog to non kink blogs #more muskie snz!!! #aramis the cheeky bastard just go to bed

[groundcontrol21]

Routine Intervention (Musketeers, M)

For @seasnz, since this is based on one of the scenarios we discussed :))) CW: depictions of canon-typical alcoholism and a mention of the v-word. Skip the paragraph that starts "Have you ever watched a drunk man..." if you want to avoid it.

****

It is a Friday night, and D’Artagnan is ensconced in a dismal game of cards with strangers he has only met one glass of wine ago at the tavern. His bleak outlook on the game reflects his bleak outlook on life, for it cuts him more deeply than he cares to admit that the Three Musketeers whose tails he has been chasing have not invited him to take part in their evening plans. The rational part of his brain impinges on his self-pity, reminding him that they are in no way obligated to him, and he has not seen any of them that day besides. But still, he gives in to grumbles and growls as he loses yet another trick. That is, until he spies the tavern door open in the corner of his eye, and through it walk Aramis, bundled in a heavy cloak, the buttons done to the chin.

The round is over, and D’Artagnan has already lost ten sous, so he bows out of the game but remains seated at the table, taking great gulps of his wine. His fellow gamblers play on, too drunk on alcohol and winnings to take issue with his remaining there.

His eyes track Aramis as he stalks, like a cloaked apparition, to a two-person table in the corner at which one man is already slumped. It is Athos, and D’Artagnan wonders for a moment how he had missed him when he entered, but the man is as cloaked in shadow as Aramis is in fabric, and he supposes missing him is rather the point of it all. Besides, three bottles lay tipped sideways on the table in front of him, and he pours now in a flagon from a clay jug, and D’Artagnan does not know what would have happened if he had seen the man in the first place.

It is late November now, and deadened brown leaves dust across Paris in a cool, misty wind. For this reason, of course, D’Artagnan is not surprised to see Aramis bundled as he is, but D’Artagnan is surprised when Aramis takes a seat at the table and does not remove the cloak. The fire in the tavern’s hearth is roaring, and between that and the heat of tangles of carousing bodies, the air inside is quite warm, even stuffy. 

Athos does not raise his eyes, and D’Artagnan gets his answer about the cloak when Aramis pitches forth with a shudder and violent sneeze. “Hehh’KSHHHH’oo!” If D’Artagnan heard it so loudly even this distance away, there is no chance that Athos did not hear it as well, but still the man does not look up at the friend who has joined him, merely choosing to stare resolutely at his cup as though it were a sacred text from which he could read.

“Ahhh’TSCHHHH!” Aramis produces a handkerchief from within the folds of his cloak, pressing it to his nose as he sneezes again. He coughs at his shoulder, into the fabric of the cloak, and D’Artagnan winces at how congested he sounds. Aramis does not return the handkerchief from whence it came; rather he keeps it balled in his fist and rests his whole arm on the table. 

A serving girl changes out the spent candle at the wall for a fresh one, and in the new light D’Artagnan can glimpse a slight flush dusting Aramis’s cheeks, and the sight strengthens D’Artagnan’s conviction that the man should be nowhere but in bed. 

“Heh’KTSCHHH’uhh! Snf!”

Whether Athos shares this conviction, though, is anyone’s guess; the man drains his cup and fills it again as though he is still alone, his motions thick and lethargic. Aramis sneezes again and again, and still Athos does not acknowledge his presence. Briefly, D’Artagnan wonders if he should go to join them, but this kind of resolute ignorance has to be purposeful, and the last thing D’Artagnan needs is to jeopardize his newly found acceptance to their group by meddling in conflicts which do not concern him.

“I was advised I might find you here,” Aramis says finally, and his voice is every bit as congested and raspy as D’Artagnan had been expecting. The serving girl who changed out the candle returns with a bottle, but Aramis waves her away. “No, thank you.” 

Aramis dips forward into his handkerchief with another sneeze. “Hep’TSCHHH’uhh!” He sniffles wetly in the aftermath. Athos still has not said a word, and D’Artagnan wonders how Aramis has not punched him yet; his own temper is rising and he is not even the one with a miserable cold.

“You are not as subtle as you think you are,” Aramis continues, “if even Jussac has begun to notice a pattern.” He leans forward to grab the jug, but even wine-soaked as his movements are, Athos is still quicker. It is the first inclination Athos has given all night that he is aware of his situation, and D’Artagnan sighs along with Aramis.  

“Athos.” Aramis coughs a bit as he exhales, running his fingers through his hair. “I am not well and I have no desire to have this fight with you tonight.”

“Then don’t,” Athos says finally. He peers up at Aramis with eyes rid-rimmed, looking bored. “Go to bed and leave me here.”

“And who will drag you back at the end of the night?”

“I am perfectly capable of surviving without your assistance.” He smirks, and the smile looks lethal. “I did so for many years before I met the two of you, after all.”

Poor Aramis sneezes again. “Ehh’KSHHHH! Snf! The two times Porthos and I dragged you from a ditch in the rain do not count, I presume.” He refolds his handkerchief for a dry spot before pressing it to his face again as he sneezes a second time, and a third. “Heh’TSCH! Ihh’TSHHH’oo!”

Athos heaves a long, rattling sigh, as though he is the one most inconvenienced by all of this. “I did not ask you to come.”

“No, but I am here anyway, and I have no intent to watch you destroy yourself any further.” Aramis makes a move for the jug again, and this time he manages to grab hold of a handle, but Athos stops him from taking the vessel with a hand over Aramis’s. 

“Please, my friend,” Aramis says quietly, and the pleading note in his voice is enough to stir deep pity in D’Artagnan’s chest. “Let us just go home.*

Without taking his eyes off Aramis, Athos jerks the jug from his grasp and tops off his cup, pouring long and slow, as if daring the other man to make a comment on it. Aramis is deathly still, and D’Artagnan thinks for a moment this will finally be when he hits Athos, but Aramis merely wrenches to the side with a pair of sneezes so raw and forceful that D’Artagnan’s throat gives a twinge in sympathy. “Heh’RSHHH! Heh’ihh’TSCHHH!”

“Athos, this is enough,” Aramis snaps and pounces on the jug, grabbing the handle. This time, Athos is too slow to stop him from gaining a real hold, but he does manage to grasp the other handle before Aramis can pull the vessel from his reach. The two men tug on it, as though it were a piece of rope. The wine within it sloshes over the sides as it is jostled between them. 

“You overgrown child,” Aramis cries. “Let it go!”

Athos sneers and tugs harder. “Shouldn’t a musketeer know when to yield?”

But the opposing forces prove too much for the clay jug, which comes free of both its handles and crashes to the table, shattering into five big pieces and leaking wine into the wood like a bloodstain. For once that night, Athos’s expression matches Aramis’s, both men’s faces going slack and white with horror, though of course, D’Artagnan knows, for different reasons.

“And do you have the money to pay for that?” Aramis asks, and if the man were ever to use such a voice on him, D’Artagnan would sink straight to his knees, trembling like a penitent choirboy. Even today, when the words aren’t directed at him, they still coax a shiver from the Gascon. 

But Athos is clearly made of sterner stuff, for he merely leans back in his chair again, breathing heavily from the exertion. “I am not in the habit of carrying any more in my purse than is strictly necessary for the evening.”

“Unbelievable,” Aramis huffs, and digs in his pocket for his own purse. He throws a fistful of coins down on the table, makes a quick gesture to the serving girl to indicate the payment, then turns back to Athos, his eyes glinting.

“Let’s go.”

He drags the man to his feet and slings Athos’s arm across his shoulders, coughing as he does so, and D’Artagnan is at the edge of his seat, ready this time to throw aside all caution and intervene if Athos puts up any sort of fight. But Athos offers not a shred of resistance, merely leans half-limp against his friend as they start the slow, hobbling process of exiting the tavern.

They make it as far as D’Artagnan’s table before Aramis stops to readjust, and he looks up at D’Artagnan. He waves awkwardly at the musketeer (well, two musketeers, though the sheen in Athos’s eyes suggests he is a couple steps removed from full awareness at the moment). 

“Uh, hello.”

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis says. “Forgive me for not joining you for a drink, as I am…” He hitches Athos up further, grasps harder at his arm, and nods brusquely. “...Otherwise occupied.”

The awkwardness settles like a stone in D’Artagnan’s stomach; he wonders if Aramis is realizing that D’Artagnan watched the whole fiasco without once stepping in. Whereas before D’Artagnan had thought intervening to be the wrong course of action, now he feels to do nothing would surely jeopardize himself more. 

So he clears his throat, offers, “Do you need any help?”

Aramis considers him for a moment, before slumping a bit, deflating. “Take his other side.”

Aramis says nothing on Athos’s behalf, offers no apologies nor explanations for what is seemingly a not-rare (if not common) occurrence, so D’Artagnan makes no comment on the matter either. Perhaps he misjudged his duty to get involved earlier, or perhaps he didn’t, but the one thing that is certain is this: there is much D’Artagnan does not yet know of these three men who call themselves the Inseparables, and he knows he will not come to know any more of them by poking and prying at mouths that are sealed shut.

Slowly but surely, they make it out of the tavern and into the damp night air, and D’Artagnan is searching for anything at all to say to break the silence, but Aramis does it for him when he turns his head slightly away from Athos’s and begins to cough. In the empty street as opposed to the cramped tavern, the raspy, hacking sound echoes. 

“You sound sick,” D’Artagnan says and hopes he sounds sympathetic.

“That’s because I am sick,” Aramis says bitterly. “Hihhh…Ihhh’TSCHH!” He sneezes again, and D’Artagnan feels the whole-body shiver he gives afterward reach himself through Athos, as if the man’s limp body is a conduit. Aramis groans softly.  “Feels like I’m getting a fever, too.”

D’Artagnan feels the urge to lift his hand to the man’s forehead to check, but he realizes it would be too much to reach across Athos to do so. It is probably for the best, he reasons, as he does not know how Aramis would react to such a thing. He means to say something conciliatory in response, in place of taking his temperature, but D’Artagnan fumbles his thoughts for too long and the moment is gone. It would only be more awkward if he said something now, so he bites his lip and continues hefting Athos in silence. Each subsequent sniffle from Aramis makes guilt stir in D’Artagnan’s stomach, but he swallows it down. 

They make it to Athos’s apartment, which is naturally up a flight of stairs. The man can still walk, but it would be all the easier if he couldn’t, for he jumbles and jostles his limbs into D’Artagnan and Aramis as they try to maneuver him up the stairs. By the time they make it to his room and deposit him on his bed, D’Artagnan is panting and sweating, and he can only imagine how Aramis feels. The man shifts Athos on the mattress so that he is laying on his side instead of his back.

“Now what?” D’Artagnan asks after they have both passed a silent minute watching Athos drool.

Aramis heaves a long sigh and closes his eyes, rolling his shoulders and rubbing at his neck. “He should have someone to stay with him.”

He heads for the chair by Athos’s desk, but D’Artagnan reaches out to stop him. “I’ll do it,” he says firmly. “You need to rest, Aramis.”

“Have you watched over a drunk man before?” When D’Artagnan shakes his head, Aramis kicks the bucket out from under Athos’s bed. “Just make sure he doesn’t choke if he starts to vomit.”

D’Artagnan nods resolutely, doing his best to tamp down on any worry the statement provokes. Aramis plucks a book, bound in red leather, from the shelf and hands it to him.

“This one is a particularly good way to pass the time.” Aramis winks. “There are four more just like it if you finish. 

Pantagruel. D’Artagnan turns the book over in his hands, running his fingers over the embossed title as Aramis sneezes miserably. “Ehh’TSHOO! Snf! Ehh..Snf! ISHHH’uhh!” He clears his throat with a dragging sound. “I thank you for volunteering,” he says thickly as he gestures back to Athos’s form upon the bed. He regards D’Artagnan with tired, darkly-ringed eyes as he sniffles and snuffles and sounds truly and utterly wretched. 

D’Artagnan nods. “Feel better.”

Aramis gives him a haphazard salute as he exits the room in a flurry of sniffles and throat-clearings. He must stop in the hall, right outside the door, to sneeze again, for D’Artagnan hears the forceful sound muffled through the walls. 

“Heh’KMPFFF!”

D’Artagnan winces, then picks up his book and takes a seat in the chair, preparing himself both for this night watch as well as for the inevitable confrontation he will receive in the morning once Athos wakes up and finds him keeping vigil over him like a nursemaid. A confrontation, D’Artagnan notes a bit sourly, that Aramis has done nothing to prepare him for, but this thought he lets slide away as soon as it has come. The poor man has enough to deal with for the night, as it is.

#my writing #sick ara/mis #woo what a surprise?? #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #do not reblog to non kink blogs #snzfic #more muskie snz!!! #athos is such a lil bitch in this one