Author's Note- Thanks to JenF for beta reading this story, my typos and sentence structure greatly appreciated your assistance. Also, all rights, and some of the lefts, are owned by the BBC… or the Estate of Alexandre Dumas… not exactly sure. Maybe they share?

Save it for a Rainy Day

by SpaceCowboy

"This morning I realized, it's just what I was born to do… to risk everything, put it all on the line. How else do I know I'm truly alive."

- Aramis (2.5 The Return)

I.

It took a moment for d'Artagnan to realize the shaking was not part of his dream, but rather, Constance trying to wake him. He sat up and looked at her as he ran a hand down his face to clear away the remnants of sleep. "What is it? Are you all right?" Branched lightening tore across the night sky, creating flashes of white light in the Bonacieux bedroom and illuminating Constance as she looked down at him, pale and panicked. D'Artagnan put a calming hand on her shoulder. "Constance, what?"

"The door," she whispered urgently, her answer punctuated by a bang clearly coming from downstairs.

D'Artagnan threw back the covers and was on his feet in moments. Dressed in only his braies, he pulled his sword from its sheath where it hung on a nearby chair, approached the doorway to the bedroom and peered down to the front door.

Lightening lit up the house again, but this time it was accompanied by a distant rumble so Constance wrapped a shawl around her shoulders before making her way to join him. D'Artagnan turned back with a finger pressed to his pursed lips. "Shh," he said. "I'll check this out. You stay here."

Constance nodded, but the slight incline of her body indicated she probably wouldn't stay still for long.

Thunder rolled in the distance and heavy rain thrashed down on the roof, but the banging at the door could be heard clearly, and it drew d'Artagnan's attention back down the stairs. His right hand brandishing his sword, he crept toward the door. The banging had stopped by the time he arrived, so he opened the eyelet and peered outside.

The darkness of night gave way only when the lightening struck, illuminating an avalanche of rain and streams of mud branching around the well in the center of the square, but no one was out there.

A thud below him made him rise on his toes and look down. He saw a man hunched over in both dark clothes and hat, and he noticed a stretch of peacock blue wrapped around the man's waist. D'Artagnan dropped from his toes, rested his sword against the wall, and quickly undid the locks.

"Who is it?"

He turned back to see Constance standing halfway down the stairs craning her neck to see past him. "It's Aramis," he said, as he opened the door.

The older musketeer was doubled over, leaning low and cumbersomely against the doorframe. He mumbled something that d'Artagnan could not hear clearly over the driving rain as it smacked against the sloppy soil and cobblestone buildings. He bent down to help his friend up when Aramis toppled forward. D'Artagnan caught him and half carried, half dragged him into the hallway and up the stairs, but he was soaking wet, which made the young musketeer's job very arduous.

"Get a chair," d'Artagnan called up to Constance.

She backed into the main living area and pulled out the closest chair from the table, then she began to light the lanterns about the room. "Is he drunk?" she asked, mild disdain in her voice.

"Not usually his style," replied d'Artagnan, as he struggled into the room with his friend, "but not completely out of the question."

Aramis kept stumbling and trying to grab furniture, so it was with great difficulty d'Artagnan finally got his friend settled in the chair. Now also wet, d'Artagnan stepped back to catch his breath, shake himself off and get a better look at his friend.

Aramis was straining to keep his eyes open and his head upright, and with nearly no apparent strength to lift his own arms, he sat slouched in the chair amassing a rather large pool of rainwater underneath him as it dripped from his waterlogged clothes.

Constance crossed her arms and huffed out a breath. "He is drunk," she declared.

"Maybe so," replied d'Artagnan, reaching for a towel on the table behind him. He crouched at his friend's knees and began cleaning him up, using one arm to hold his friend in the chair. "But even if he is, he's our friend and we should help."

Constance grumbled to herself as she turned to start a fire in the hearth behind her. Since hearing Aramis was the true father of the dauphin, she'd felt a certain animosity toward him, and the fact that she had to hide this knowledge only compounded her frustration with him even more. "I wasn't suggesting we shouldn't help," she muttered, unable to contain her slight ire. "I'm just saying it's the middle of the bloody night. Why did he have to come here?" When the fire began to take hold, she turned back and saw d'Artagnan examining the towel, a worried frown creasing his young features. She looked immediately at Aramis and noticed he was pale, shivering and couldn't swallow without grimacing. "He's not drunk, is he?" she asked.

"There's blood," d'Artagnan said, eyes wide as he glanced up at her. He reached a hand out to the musketeer's cheek. It was cold, and there was no reaction to his touch. D'Artagnan gave him a gentle slap, and Aramis' eyes burst open. They darted about the room unfocused as he began to cough and pant.

D'Artagnan's concern heightened to near panic and he began removing his friend's wet clothing. "Grab a blanket," he instructed. When the request was fulfilled, he threw it before the fire to gather warmth. "Talk to me, Aramis," he said, as he fumbled with the sash and belts around his waist- noting with a frown the absence of weapons. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"Whatever happened, you're safe now," added Constance.

It wasn't until he was down to his bare chest and braies that Aramis spoke for the first time. He clutched his arms tightly around his chest as if the act alone could abate the tremors taking over his body.

"Don't know exactly," he said, between chattering teeth. "Cold. Tired."

Constance retrieved the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. He grabbed the ends and pulled it tighter around his body. When she pulled her hands back she noticed her left one spotted with blood. She showed it to d'Artagnan then went to gather some cloth.

D'Artagnan searched his friend and found blood dripping from Aramis' left hand. Still crouched before him, d'Artagnan gently took Aramis' hand and lowered it into his lap to clean it. When the blood was cleared, he found a deep, clean-edged gash across the palm. "This is a knife wound," he declared. "Who did this?"

Many seconds passed before Aramis answered. "Don't know. Happened so fast. Don't know where I woke up." His voice was broken as he tried to communicate his obviously confused thoughts.

"Were you attacked?"

Suddenly, Aramis' shoulders hunched forward, bringing his torso along with them. His eyes squeezed shut and d'Artagnan sprang from his vulnerable position just in time to avoid the vomit. He put a hand on each of his friend's shoulders so he wouldn't fall out of the chair and waited while his friend emptied the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

When Constance returned to the room she stopped abruptly and covered her mouth. After a brief pause, she went to stand behind Aramis, holding him upright in the chair once the retching had stopped.

"Did he say anything?"

D'Artagnan shook his head and fetched his friend some water. Aramis held the cup gingerly, took a few sips and then spat the contents onto the floor with a grimace.

"Sorry," he whispered. "Can't swallow."

Constance wrapped an arm around his head and laid her hand across his brow.

"You have no need to apologize, Aramis. But we need to know what happened. Where do you hurt?"

"And what brought you here?" asked d'Artagnan, as he threw some of Monsieur Bonacieux's old cloth samples over the mess on the floor.

There was an obvious grimace as Aramis swallowed.

"I was attacked," he said afterward, a creeping awareness evident in his voice. "Don't know why… or why I came here… thought I was going to the garrison." Again, his chattering and unsteadying breaths crippled his sentences.

D'Artagnan noticed Aramis' hands had moved to his left hip where he seemed to be applying pressure. "What's wrong?" he asked, as he bent down before his friend again.

Aramis tensed, and his grip on his hip intensified with as much force as his grimace. "Oh God, it hurts."

D'Artagnan tried to pry his friend's hands away for a better look, but Aramis bent forward. "Oh God, it hurts!" he cried again, between clenched teeth.

D'Artagnan stood back and shared a worried glance with Constance.

"We need to get a doctor," urged Constance. "And he needs to be lying down."

"My old room," suggested the Gascon, reaching to help his friend out of the chair.

Aramis begged for him to stop, but d'Artagnan ignored the plea, and after some shuffling and moaning, he was finally able to get Aramis sitting on the bed. The Spaniard had straightened up a bit, and was only holding his hip with his left hand now, but it was leaving a smear of blood transferred from the open wound on his hand.

D'Artagnan and Constance moved to lower him down, but Aramis waved them off so he could slowly lower himself- obviously needing to control his descent to avoid any unexpected jolts or misplaced hands. When he was finally down, it was apparent he could neither rest his head back without excruciating pain nor straighten his left leg. The hisses and language that came from his mouth gave d'Artagnan and Constance a clear indication of how bad his situation was.

D'Artagnan ran into the other bedroom and came back with his arms full of clothes and a pair of boots. "I'm going to the garrison," he said, slipping into his pants. "The Captain will know a doctor. You stay here with Aramis."

Constance, who had taken vigil on the far side of the bed, nodded with a sad smile. She looked down at Aramis; he was restless, his face wrenched in pain, and she felt her animosity toward him ebbing away. She picked up his right hand and held it between her own. It felt so cold and delicate, unlike the man she knew him to be, and it pained her to see him like this.

D'Artagnan went to Aramis and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I'll be right back. Just hang on."

Aramis peered at him through half-lidded eyes, his body turned slightly to his right in an attempt to alleviate some of the pain in his injured hip. "Yes. Doctor. I heard you. Bring Treville."

"Yes, of course," replied d'Artagnan. Then he gave Constance a nod and took his leave.

Constance remained holding Aramis' hand as he continued to squirm and moan on the bed. His movements were minute but the noises they evoked were troubling. She raked her eyes over his torso and noted the blood from his left hand was spreading across his hip as he applied pressure. He was also trembling and, although dry, he was still cold and pale.

"There, there, Aramis," she soothed, brushing back the hair that had fallen over his eyes. "You don't look very comfortable at all, what can I get you for the pain?"

"Don't think… help with the pain," he replied, pausing to swallow carefully around a sharp pain in his throat. "Blanket might be nice."

"Of course. My apologies," she stated, quickly dropping his hand and rising from the bed. She scurried back into the other room, where thankfully, the fallen blanket had landed in front of the fire. She held it close to her chest to retain the warmth as she carried it back to Aramis. She spread it over him and carefully tucked him in. As she looked down at him she felt her heart ache.

His was head turned to the side and he was massaging his forehead with his right hand while his left hand still gripped mercilessly at his hip. His breathing was very controlled and his eyes were clenched tight. All Constance could think was that she was glad it wasn't d'Artagnan.

With a sharp intake of breath she shook the thought from her mind. To keep it from invading again, she set to work bandaging his left hand. She gathered strips of cloth and a bowl of fresh water then returned to his bedside. Pushing back the blanket to reveal his left hip, she gently touched the hand that lay upon it. "I'm sorry," she said. "But your hand needs to be tended."

Aramis nodded slightly, but did not open his eyes. "Understand. Do as you must."

Constance smiled and took his hand in hers. She wasn't skilled in needlework, but at least she could clean it and help staunch the bleeding with a bandage. Aramis did not put up much fuss, which made it easier for Constance. Then, with a newly soaked cloth, and with as much gentleness as she possessed, she started to clean the blood smeared on his hip. This elicited several jerks and twitches from the musketeer- and even a few cursives, but he told her to continue despite his countenance.

Slowly, the blood disappeared from his hip to reveal a very large, very troubling bruise on his lower left side. Hues of red, black and purple spread across his skin from near his naval, across his hip and around to his back. It was so ghastly against his pale skin she couldn't stop the words tumbling from her mouth.

"My god, Aramis. What did they do to you?"

There was a very audible sigh before Aramis spoke. "I think… I remember a stair case…"

A sword was swinging at him before he could even drop the smile from his face. He reached out with his unprotected left hand, grabbed the blade and yanked- both disarming the assailant and slicing his hand at the same time.

He stepped back and discarded the sword behind him with so much force it bounced off the wall before clanging to the floor. Then he reached for his knife, but before he found purchase he felt a blow to the back of his head so hard his vision turned red. He stood his ground, refusing to even take a knee and fought the overwhelming urge to crumple to the floor.

And it was in that moment someone grabbed him from behind, his breath was stolen as arms cinched around his chest and flung him toward the door. He stumbled, but he didn't hit the floor, catching himself in the doorframe, but his defiance to go down spurred the men to try harder.

Two of them attacked simultaneously, hitting Aramis with their shoulders square in the stomach and driving him back. He remembered feeling air rush past him as it took a curiously long time to hit the ground. When he landed it was on hard, uneven ground, his left hip making painful contact with some sort of angle before sliding further down…

When Aramis finished recounting his memory, he coughed lightly and then swallowed with great effort. "Bit hazy after that," he whispered. "Sorry."

"No, no, no, don't apologize," hushed Constance. His eyes were open now, but his brow was creased with memories just out of reach. He looked desperately uncomfortable, so she grabbed some pillows from the wardrobe at the foot of the bed and returned to his side. "Perhaps you should save the rest for Captain Treville," she said, as she fluffed one of the pillows on her lap.

Then she beckoned for Aramis to sit up and guided him by the shoulders till he was sitting. As she leaned forward to place one of the pillows behind him, she felt his head drop onto her chest just above her right breast. His head was turned to the door so she could not see his face, and his left hand was gripping her elbow as if begging her not to move away.

It was an intimate position, but it was born of need and comfort: she felt neither compromised nor uncomfortable in any way. Instead, Constance stopped fussing with the pillows and wrapped her free arm around him as the other one remained trapped in her lap. He still shivered, so she released him briefly to grab the blanket and threw it back over his shoulders and returned her arm to its embrace.

Neither moved, other than to tighten their hold or rub gently, and as time moved on, Constance felt Aramis relax. She knew he wasn't asleep by the rhythm of his breathing, but his voice surprised her anyway.

"They said my name," he murmured, into her arm. "I heard them say my name."

Constance felt her stomach drop. Thoughts of the Queen and dauphin rushed forward from her subconscious where she'd being trying to restrain them, and she couldn't help but wonder if the attack had something to do with them. But Aramis was in no state for discourse, so she moved her hand to the back of his neck and sighed deeply. "It'll be all right, Aramis," she said, anxiously, looking out the window as the rain continued to beat against the glass. "Your friends will know what to do."

To be Continued…