A/N: I'm not sure who prompted 'Aid' but here it is. Apologies to anyone still waiting.

Edit: this was for AnnaMarie98 via PM - sorry!

"Easy, pup," Porthos murmurs, ashen face swimming into view as d'Artagnan fights his way into consciousness. He gently replaces the cool cloth upon d'Artagnan's forehead, who shies away from it, shuddering.

"'m cold."

"No, you feel cold." A weight at his side tells d'Artagnan that their Captain has joined them, the hand upon his good shoulder confirming it.

"Cold," d'Artagnan persists, the word near lost as his feeble squirming upsets his wound. He can feel the stitches holding him together – rough but sturdy – and is grateful for them, and for the hands bracing him. "You all right?"

"Yeah, me an' Athos are just fine."

So he waits, and waits a little longer, panics, then finally remembers. Porthos notices, as he always does.

"Back later," Porthos huffs, and stands without waiting for an answer. Once he leaves, Athos picks up the abandoned cloth, pressing it to d'Artagnan's overheated skin.

"You were asking for him," Athos admits quietly after a moment. "You begged for his aid."

The wooden post of the tent above him begins to blur and swim. He feels his throat growing tight. The familiar ache returns, along with it the guilt of having reminded them. Athos glances towards the door through which Porthos had disappeared, and looks for a moment so utterly defeated.

"We did too. He should be-" but he breaks off.

D'Artagnan hears the thought nonetheless: He should be here. Aramis should be here.

"Stop getting shot," Athos says instead. "People will think me careless."

"People?"

"Constance."