#d'artagnan and the three musketeers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

queenofmoons67 · 1 year

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Hey! I just read your fic for the Musketeers and I really liked it! I was wondering if you could do a fic that has all 4 InseparableswiInseparable a focus on hurt D'Artagnan. The tropes I was hoping you would be able to include are: gotta stay quiet to avoid discovery, "breathe, just breathe", desparate hand holding, DIY bullet removal, frantically feeling for breath or pulse, stubbornly standing only to have their legs give out. And could the bullet be in his shoulder? Thank you!

Hi! I'm happy to say I managed to include FOUR of the six tropes! I hope you like it!

WARNING for canon-typical violence.

D’Artagnan shivered in Porthos’s arms. He knew the summer day was really a warm twenty-seven degrees centigrade—had felt the perspiration running down his skin as he and his three mentors rode out to the mercenaries’ stronghold, and even once they were inside, the sturdy stone walls heating the corridors—but the perspiration had turned into a pained cold sweat, trapped between his body and the leather of his uniform, and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but burrow deeper into Porthos’s hold, seeking the heat of another body.

It helped that Porthos was bigger than most, his broad chest and wide biceps encircling more of d’Artagnan than another musketeer would have, but again the leather uniform turned against them: Porthos’s heat refused to seep past all the layers.

The burrowing action must have betrayed d’Artagnan, with nothing but a still quiet to otherwise hold Porthos’s attention, and he found himself under his companion’s worried gaze.

Porthos’s brow had been tight since the beginning of the mission; sneaking into an unknown stronghold to take stock of the weaponry within wasn’t the way the musketeers typically worked, and everyone—even Porthos and Aramis, who seemed to find thrill in an open fight—had been subdued and focused.

And then they had been discovered, Porthos and d’Artagnan separated from Aramis and Athos, d’Artagnan shot in the left shoulder, and Porthos’s carefully trimmed black eyebrows had furrowed lower and lower, closer and closer together even as he had gathered d’Artagnan in his arms and hurried them away from the fire fight, losing both their pursuers and themselves in the deep stone halls of the stronghold.

Now, they sat together in what once had been a bedroom, hidden on the floor using a perfectly good bed as cover from the doorway, d’Artagnan nestled between Porthos’s thighs so they sat back to chest, Porthos’s heavy arms around him and heavy gaze upon him.

“D’Artagnan,” Porthos hissed, voice a mere breath on the wind, “you ok?”

“Fine,” d’Artagnan managed. If there was one advantage to the cold, it was that it numbed the pain in his shoulder, as did the steady pressure Porthos had put on it for the last—how long had it been?

D’Artagnan couldn’t remember. Didn’t know if he had ever known. But the light coming in the only window had changed, hadn’t it? The long-reaching shadow of tree branches on the floor—that hadn’t been there before.

Had it?

“D’Artagnan,” Porthos said, louder than last time. “You with me?”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan managed. He was with Porthos. With Aramis and Athos, too, even if only in spirit at the moment. With them forever. For as long as they would have him. The four musketeers.

“D’Artagnan,” Porthos said, quiet again. “You’ll be just fine, you hear me? Just gotta wait for Aramis to patch you up, and then Athos’ll bust us out, all papa bear-like.”

D’Artagnan snorted at the thought. He knew—he thought he knew what Porthos meant. Athos only cared about himself because others did, but if anyone threatened someone Athos cared about, the rapier came out.

That was a nice thought. D’Artagnan being someone Athos cared about.

D’Artagnan liked the thought of that.

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Something jostled d’Artagnan, and he moaned in pain, gazing blearily through half-open eyes. Had he closed them? The room was dark now, no light left to slip past the window curtains.

“Shh,” Porthos murmured. A broad hand brushed over d’Artagnan’s head, thumb sweeping sweaty bangs away, the softest touch d’Artagnan thought he’d ever felt. “Just breathe for me, yeah? I’ll be right back.”

And then the touch fell away, and Porthos laid d’Artagnan back against the stone wall. It was an awkward position, only half-supported, his lower back on the floor but his neck and head tilted up enough to see, but d’Artagnan knew why when the familiar polished wood of a pistol slipped into his hands, his finger guided to the cool metal of the trigger.

D’Artagnan struggled to focus, to put his sleep-heavy mind to work figuring out the danger he knew was coming. To think past the pain, throbbing in his shoulder now even as the cold persisted, worse in the nighttime.

There was a sound in the hall, the scuff of a leather boot on stone, but nothing else. Someone trying to be quiet. Sneaking. Searching for people who weren’t supposed to be there.

Porthos was quieter. Had learned the art of creeping in the Court of Miracles, d’Artagnan knew, where it was a matter of survival for him, Flea, and Charon, and had perfected it as a musketeer. Porthos used the skill now, tucking himself to the side of the doorway, rapier in one hand and the shorter main-gauche in the other. There would be no gunshot to alert other mercenaries—not unless they made it past Porthos and d’Artagnan had to defend himself.

For a moment, Porthos looked back at d’Artagnan, and d’Artagnan nodded back. The motion made him dizzy, head swimming with the pain of head pulling on neck pulling on shoulder, but it was worth it to see the way Porthos steadied himself, expression clear for the first time all day as he focused on the door creaking open.

From d’Artagnan’s point of view on the floor, door opening towards him and blocking his view, all he could see at first was a narrow steel blade, held at the ready—

And then Porthos moved, his own rapier slipping under the intruder’s before pulling back, the blade now slick with blood. There was the clatter of a body falling to the floor—leather, metal, and weapons, all guided down by a heavy weight to hit the roughly carven stone—and then several people shouted at once, the door flew open, and d’Artagnan watched as Porthos braced himself before the onslaught of several angry armed mercenaries.

His sight was blurry, clouded by pain and exhaustion and tears, and it made it hard to track the movements at the door. But d’Artagnan had been trained by the best men France had. One of them stood before him now, and d’Artagnan traced the way Porthos’s rapier—heavier than most, because Porthos was stronger than most—beat down the swords raised against him, distracting the mercenaries enough for the main-gauche to stab past their guard.

The doorway provided an excellent chokepoint, limiting the number of people able to come in. But even just the second mercenary falling to the ground forced Porthos back so he wouldn’t step on the bodies.

The other two mercenaries in the group had no such cares, and they both moved forward, shoulder to shoulder, so Porthos had to fight them both at once.

Porthos could have won the fight. Of that d’Artagnan had no doubt; he had witnessed Porthos win against worse odds.

Most odds didn’t have a fifth man hanging back, pistol raised and finger finding the trigger.

D’Artagnan didn’t have to bother finding his. Aiming the best he could with his blurry vision, praying to Aramis’s god that he didn’t hit Porthos, he braced himself and pulled the trigger.

The pistol’s recoil hit his shoulder before he saw where the bullet flew, and d’Artagnan screamed, dropping the pistol to the side and hunching over his injured arm. For a time, nothing existed but the pain—and then a hand fell on his good shoulder, over his pauldron, and d’Artagnan forced his eyes open and his head up till he could see broad brown features, a hat askew on a patterned bandana, a silver fleur-de-lis splattered with blood, and eyes wide with worry.

Porthos. It was Porthos, and d’Artagnan let his head fall down again, chin to his chest, and breathed.

For a moment, Porthos let him. And then, “We gotta go, pup.”

Just four simple words, but d’Artagnan heard a lot more. His pistol shot had saved Porthos’s life, but it had given away their position. Every mercenary in the stronghold would be headed their way—and already was, by the sound of the chaos outside the room. If they wanted to make it out alive, they had to go.

They had to leave Athos and Aramis behind. Had to trust that their brothers would find their own way home.

D’Artagnan said nothing, but held up his hand.

Porthos grabbed it and held it tight as he leveraged d’Artagnan up, around the room past the five dead mercenaries, and onto the bed closest to the window. D’Artagnan grit his teeth against the pain, squeezed Porthos’s hand, and forced himself to keep breathing. He couldn’t pass out again. Not if he wanted to give Porthos any help at all in their escape.

At the window, Porthos drew the curtains back, revealing the night of a new moon. They had the cover of complete darkness, and there, so close they almost brushed the window, were the branches that had cast shadows into the room during the day.

An entire forest lay at the stronghold’s back. It stretched as far as the eye could see, hiding the stronghold from sight of the main roads, and was in fact the way the four musketeers had gotten in in the first place. And a few kilometers into the forest, a thirty minute walk without any bullet wounds slowing them down, their horses had been hobbled by a stream.

If they could climb down without alerting any guards, they were home free.

They had been close to leaving the whole time, d’Artagnan realized. As many halls as they had passed through, all the corridors doubling back on each other and the sound of the mercenaries right behind them, there were only three floors: The basement, the main floor, and the second floor. They were on the second, and the rope Porthos pulled now from his belt would easily reach the forest floor.

The only thing holding him and Porthos back had been the mercenaries looking for them, the unwillingness to face them when Porthos would have to carry d’Artagnan and fight at the same time, and the desire to leave only once reunited with Athos and Aramis.

But now they had no choice. Already, he could hear running footsteps and the clanging of swords.

Porthos tied the rope around a bed post, then tossed the first few feet of its free end out into open space. Holding still, they both listened.

Nothing. Just the sounds inside. Any guards who might have been on the rooftop were probably summoned by the pistol shot.

Grabbing the rest of the rope, Porthos tossed it out the window so that it pulled tight between the curve of the windowsill and the knob of the bed post.

Porthos moved back towards d’Artagnan—and the door, which d’Artagnan hadn’t even realized had been shut again, banged open.

For a moment, d’Artagnan regretted letting the pistol go. As painful as it would be to use it a second time, he wanted a weapon in his hands as he looked towards the doorway and—

“Mon Dieu, merci,” Aramis breathed, and he and Athos hurtled into the room, swords out and coated in blood. “We’ve been searching for hours.”

“So have they,” Athos said, noting the bodies on the floor. “Did they fire the pistol shot, or did you?”

“D’Artagnan,” Porthos said, and it was both an answer and a call. D’Artagnan tore his gaze from the two brothers he had feared they’d leave behind, met Porthos’s eyes, and nodded. In an instant, Porthos had hauled him into his arms, chest to chest so d’Artagnan could wrap his legs around Porthos’s waist and avoid pulling at the bullet wound in his shoulder.

Porthos was a whirl of movement as he grabbed the rope and dropped out the window to climb down, hand over hand and feet braced against the outer stone wall, and d’Artagnan did his best to focus on a line of rivets along the collar of Porthos’s leather jerkin instead of letting his head swim.

But the fast movement meant they were on the ground quickly, and by the time Aramis and Athos had also slid down the rope, Porthos had shifted d’Artagnan so he lay back in his brother’s arms.

This wasn’t the first time d’Artagnan had been carried by someone else; as a child, he had been fond of climbing into his mother’s arms, and as a teenager, he had once broken his ankle and been carried home on his father’s back.

All the times d’Artagnan had been carried before, he had bounced with even the gentlest movements of the other person.

But not with Porthos. Even as they pushed into the woods and hurried as fast they could over tree roots and around bushes, casting glances over shoulders to make sure they weren’t being followed, Porthos held d’Artagnan so tightly he barely moved. There was no extra pain, and so when they finally came to a stop and Porthos sat him down against a tree trunk, well into the woods but still a ways from the horses, d’Artagnan met the gazes of Aramis and Athos with relatively clear eyes.

Though d’Artagnan was sure they had already figured out something was wrong, this was the first time they had gotten a good look at his injury, and Athos blanched while Aramis dropped to his knees.

“How long?” Aramis asked. His hands worked carefully to peel away d’Artagnan’s leather jacket, shirt, and makeshift bandage.

When the bullet wound was finally revealed, d’Artagnan thought, Oh, as he looked at his bared chest. Some of what he’d thought had been sweat had been blood all along.

“Soon after we got separated,” Porthos said. He knelt beside Aramis, and Athos squeezed into a space between d’Artagnan and the base of a tree.

“Bullet’s still in there, and he bled a lot and went into shock, but—” Porthos held d’Artagnan’s gaze “—you seem to be doing better now?”

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan sighed. “‘M still cold, but at least we’re out of there.” He grinned at them, and Aramis and Porthos both huffed a laugh.

Athos just nodded firmly. “Aramis?” he checked. “Can we keep going?”

Aramis patted the bandages and clothes back into place, then nodded. “He’ll have to be,” he determined. “The bullet needs to come out soon, or we risk lead poisoning. But I can’t take it out here. I don’t have the materials to do it safely, and we’re not anywhere near far enough away from that stronghold that him screaming won’t bring them all down on us. Better to move now, while he’s conscious, than halfway through surgery.”

D’Artagnan scrunched his nose up, offended at the idea that he’d give away their position, but also unable to refute it when he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold his tongue against the pain. Still, he wasn’t able to resist planting his palms against the ground and fighting to get his feet under him and stand, just to show he was still capable and helpful while he had a bullet in his shoulder.

The moment d’Artagnan put pressure on his left arm, it shot up to his shoulder. D’Artagnan fought for breath, lungs seizing and arms shaking as he collapsed back to the ground. That had been a mistake. He had managed before to fight through the pain and focus on his friends, but now, the pain was too much.

His good hand shot out, searching for something to hold onto, and it clenched around something solid and hard, digging his fingers into grooves and around some kind of metal inlay, holding onto—holding onto—

“D’Artagnan?” a voice asked. It sounded familiar, like he had answered it many times already that day, like it had pulled him back from the dark, but it sounded so far away now. How much effort would it take to return to it again?

“D’Artagnan!” another voice said, rough and fearful, and something tightened around his ankle and a spike of pain shot through his shoulder and—

D’Artagnan opened his eyes to see Aramis’s pauldron, all fancy curls and floral vines. One hand, gloved in an old brown leather, gripped the pauldron tight while another hand, gloved in a nicer black leather, held the first. As he watched, the black glove squeezed, and he blinked in surprise when he felt that in his own hand.

Oh, he realized. The brown glove was his own, with dirt worn into it from farming and nicks cut into it from sparring, which meant that hand was his own.

He had grabbed Aramis’s pauldron when he felt like he might pass out.

D’Artagnan could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, and hoping his friends would just think it because of his wound, he raised his eyes to meet Aramis’s.

The medic breathed a gusty sigh of relief, and his hand squeezed d’Artagnan’s again. “You scared us, mon ami.”

Aramis’s voice was soft, but d’Artagnan didn’t have time to worry for his friend for another hand cupped his own cheek and turned his head.

“Never,” Athos said, “do that again.”

D’Artagnan crooked the best grin he could considering the circumstances. Like he had a choice on when pain grew too much to handle.

But then again he knew what Athos really meant. Never get hurt again. Never put himself in harm’s way again.

Like he could promise that any more than the first. All he could really do was rest his head in the palm of Athos’s hand, take a shaky breath, and cough, “Leaving?”

“Just waiting on you, pup,” Porthos said, quiet and low. D’Artagnan turned to look at him. Porthos’s brow had grown tight again, but he had already positioned himself to pick d’Artagnan up again.

D’Artagnan braced himself for the pain—and then he nodded.

They had the rest of the walk ahead, followed by a horseback ride, a surgery, and questions about what to do with the mercenaries. They left behind bullet cases, dead bodies, and a rope dangling out a window.

But they were headed home, and they were together.

In the end, that’s all d’Artagnan wanted.

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I hope you all enjoyed, and please leave a comment and/or reblog: It gives me fuel to write more! (Nie Bros Prompts are up next!)

#d'artagnan #porthos #athos #aramis #bbc musketeers #d'artagnan and the three musketeers #writing prompt #musketeers fic #anonymous #anon

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