A/N: First of all, I'm not dead, yaay! *does the happy dance* And to make up for my inexcusable absence during the series hiatus, I come bearing gifts - and the promise of many more.

Right, so I'm trying something new here. This is the first story of an AU arc I've been crafting for the better part of a year (yes, it actually does exist, I wasn't deceiving you) wherein our boys are present time soldiers in a U.S. Army unit (care to guess what their unit is called? Lol.) I've been sitting on this particular story for over half a year, and it's now as ready as it's likely to be (and I've seriously been dying to share this with you all, not just this fic, but the entire arc.)

I am dedicating this story to my dear friend SaphireInTheSky, who helped me immensely when she encouraged me "not to rush it" - which, incidentally, resulted in several more pages of text. You are gold 3

I really hope that you will all find this as enjoyable to read as I found writing it was!

~Easy As Breathing~

"Brotherhood is the very price and condition of man's survival."

- Carlos Pena Romulo

They arrive at the shelter two hours after darkness has fallen. Fahad, their informer, motions for them to wait while he disappears behind what seems like nothing more than a wall of dry greenery, covering the mountain wall. Every inch of Athos' being is on high alert, waiting for the inevitable assault, but mere seconds later the man reappears, nodding in encouragement.

"All clear."

Athos follows through the foliage. His eyes wander the small space: an oval shaped, carved opening in the mountain not even large enough to host a dozen men.

Luckily, the number of their own party is much more modest.

"You can lie him down here," Fahad gestures, while moving towards the back. "There should be blankets further in."

He moves aside what Athos had first thought was the back wall, but upon closer inspection seems to be another foliage curtain, and disappears.

This place is larger than it seems, then.

Athos turns, eyes going to his comrades: the outline of their combined profile resembling some kind of absurd mountain man. He moves aside, giving them the chance to enter their temporary refuge.

"How is he?"

Porthos gently lowers their unconscious third into a half-sitting position against the mountain wall and sighs wearily.

"Don't seem t'be any better. If anythin', I'd say he's gettin' worse."

"His breathing?"

"Same as before."

Athos nods and suppresses a sigh. He'd feared as much; after all, it has been over a week since the exposure.

Soft footsteps alert them to Fahad's return.

"This is all there is," he says, offering to Porthos what Athos assumes are the blankets. The informer scratches his head, somehow managing to look simultaneously abashed and contrite. "I'm sorry there isn't more," he apologizes. "To my knowledge, this particular shelter hasn't been used for quite some time."

"We'll make due."

Fahad nods, and then looks down. He chews on his lip. Shifts his feet.

Athos knows what he is going to say before he even opens his mouth.

"This is where I must leave you," the man eventually says, sounding genuinely regretful. "I wish I didn't have to, but if I'm not back before dawn…"

"Of course," Athos says. "We appreciate all of your help."

Fahad nods again.

"Before I leave though, I would like to give you some directional advice."

They already have a route in mind but, considering that their mission has been slightly derailed – as well as delayed – Athos is more than willing to let the man share his knowledge of the area. Fahad has been their ally for years and this is Athos' third mission with him; he knows it in his gut that the man can be trusted.

Taking out his map, they both lean over it. Athos listens closely to the instructions, his eyes occasionally wandering over to where Porthos sits leaning against the wall, their sniper's unmoving form clutched securely to his chest.

"Follow this road here," Fahad says, his finger tracing what looks like a hunched viper ready to strike. "It will take you through the mountains and out the other side. After that," he shrugs, knowing that he isn't privy to their exact rendezvous point, "you're on your own."

Athos thanks him and shakes his hand. The man has risked more than enough in ensuring their safe escape when they had unexpectedly found themselves pinned down by enemy fire, and then insisting on accompanying them until they were certain that their pursuers had lost the trail. When Aramis, during one of his last lucid moments, had asked why, Fahad simply shrugged and said, "I'm already a traitor to my country. If they catch you, it will all have been for nothing."

Said man now turns and takes Porthos' outstretched hand, squeezing it briefly before moving towards the entrance. He hesitates, half-turns before murmuring, "I'm sorry about your friend."

Porthos shakes his head.

"Nah, don't be. Aramis's tough, he'll pull through," he says confidently, eyeing the uncharacteristically still bundle in his arms, breaths far too shallow for Athos' liking. "He always does."

Fahad smiles, that sad, sympathetic we-both-know-that's-not-true-but-I-won't-call-you-on-your-bullshit smile that Athos positively abhors, and even more so since he shares Fahad's concerns. The man has probably witnessed his fair share of horrors caused by what now ails their friend, but Athos refuses to compare it to their situation – he is just glad that Porthos is too occupied with their ex-Ranger to notice the sadness in Fahad's eyes.

"Of course. I will pray for him." He glances at Athos. "Good luck."

Athos gives a curt nod. "You too."

And then they are only three.

Athos allows himself a few seconds to feel the exhaustion brought on by days on the run, constantly on high alert, before he pulls himself together and turns to his one conscious team member.

"I should see to your arm."

"Wish we could start a fire," Porthos mutters, ignoring him. "Whether he wants it or not, he needs the heat."

Athos doesn't respond to that. They both know that a fire is too dangerous; on the off chance of someone seeing the glow or the smoke, they would be too vulnerable to be able to properly defend themselves in here.

"Do you still have your IFAK? Regrettably, mine was lost in all the commotion…"

"You know we're up for 'nother one of his lectures when he wakes up and realizes you've stitched me up again? Remember last time?" A smile twitches Porthos' lips, and he removes a stray curl from their brother's clammy face. "He'll make it," he says, the softness of his voice belying the reverence with which the words are spoken. "He'll be fine."

"Porthos…" Athos says, but doesn't know how to continue. After all, what assurances can he give? They both know the facts – that the survival rate is sixty percent: that this illness has already killed over two thousand people in the last year, only in the Middle East: that there is, as of yet, no cure – and he fails to see how bringing them up would help them now.

"He'll make it," Porthos repeats sternly, finally looking up and meeting Athos' gaze, daring him to argue. Despite the lack of light, Athos can see the pleading in his friend's eyes clearly, begging him without words to make promises that he simply cannot. Not for the first time, Athos wishes that Aramis had been shot, or stabbed, or just taken a plain, traditional beating; battle wounds they could deal with – Aramis is, admittedly, the most skilled of the three, having had it as a part of his Ranger's training, but Athos and Porthos are experienced enough not to make a complete mess of it – but illness? That's something else entirely.

He crouches in front of them and carefully cups Aramis' cheek in one hand, appalled at the heat he can feel there. "Has he woken at all since Abbasi?"

Porthos shakes his head, and Athos finds himself wondering once again when their mission had gone from a simple milk run to a complete and utter disaster.

The three of them had been tasked with finding the location of a certain copper wire, hidden somewhere in the Iranian mountains, and cut it. Athos assumed the wire intercepted their own communications somehow, spilling information to their enemies – Treville had neither confirmed nor denied the insinuation. They had met with Fahad and their conveyance (aka camels: the fastest and most inconspicuous means of transport to where they were heading) after a 10-mile trek from their drop-off point and, by the third day, Aramis started showing symptoms. They had sent him ahead to scout, him being the fastest and most agile of the three, but when after half an hour he still hadn't reappeared, they went looking for him. He stood leaning against a tree mere miles away, shoulders hunched and heaving for breath.

"How many?" Athos had asked, senses alerted and already searching the area for pursuers.

Aramis shook his head, the dark curls that weren't plastered to his face bouncing with the movement, forehead creased in concentration. Athos' own frown was mirrored on Porthos' face.

"You alright?"

Aramis made an abortive movement in their general direction, waving their concerns away and, after another few deep breaths, assured them that he was fine. He had fired one of his most disarming smiles – the one that told Athos that whatever came out of his mouth next was going to be nothing short of complete bullshit – and said something about the "trying Iranian mountain terrain."

Athos had been about to remind him that he should have been able to make that run without so much as breaking into a sweat, but before he had the chance, Aramis moved on to inform them that the upcoming passage seemed to be clear, and that was that. They moved forward, Aramis seemingly "fine" enough, and continued with their mission.

The ambush they encountered the day after hadn't helped any, though.

Athos pushes the memories of that particular fiasco aside and busies himself with checking and re-bandaging Porthos' arm – courtesy of one of the rebel's ricocheting bullets. It's no more than a graze, but Athos thinks he's earned the right to be extra vigilant; the last thing they need is two incapacitated operators.

Aramis' labored breathing fills their small refuge, and Athos tries not to think about how fast his condition has deteriorated.

Porthos releases a heavy breath and Athos knows what he's thinking: that this has killed perfectly healthy men and women: that it spreads like a parasite through the human race with no sense of discrimination, and that there is No. Fucking. Cure.

Athos really hates disease.

"Now…" he says curtly, breaking the silence. "I will take first watch. Old shelter or not, I won't have us taken by surprise just because someone suddenly decides to reinstate this as a hide-out."

Porthos starts to protest, but Athos interrupts him. "You have been hauling our Ranger's lazy hide around for the better part of two days. I take first watch. End of discussion."

The lack of any indignant reply from the man in question is painfully obvious in the ensuing silence, but Porthos still manages a weak smirk. Though Athos knows he would never confess to it, carrying their brother through the Iranian heat is bound to tire a man of even Porthos' constitution.

After giving his friend's arm a squeeze, Athos leans back against the wall opposite his team, gun carefully laid in his lap.

"I'll wake you in a few hours."

~Les Inséparables~

Porthos wakes some interminable time later to the sound of someone trying to hack up a lung. Only half-awake, he instinctively reaches for his gun – only for his arm to bump into something at the same time warm and soaked through that lies strewn across his lap, shaking and gasping so hard it feels like some kind of seizure—

Instantly awake, Porthos drags Aramis up from the sagged position he's in and holds him against his chest, rubbing gentle circles across his back. Aramis pants against him, moans escaping him whenever he succeeds in getting enough air into his lungs.

"Shh, 's alright," Porthos mumbles, worry making his own throat tight. "'S alright. Just breathe for me, 'Mis. Nice and slow, that's it."

It seems like forever before the fit finally subsides and Aramis lies wheezing against him, energy spent, the occasional shudder running through his fevered body.

"P'thos?" he slurs, shifting as if to move. The attempt is rapidly aborted as it tears another moan from him.

"Yeah, 's me," Porthos says, dragging a hand through his brother's damp curls. Aramis sinks into the touch with a weary sigh. "'S okay. You're alright."

He can hear Aramis swallow with some difficulty, and reaches for his backpack. The movement pulls at his stitches but he pays it no mind – it's more an inconvenience than anything. Fishing up a water bottle, he unscrews it and holds it to his friend's lips, tipping it slightly to help him drink. After what he deems to be enough, he gently removes it, despite Aramis' weak noises of protest.

Tucking the bottle away, Porthos feels Aramis sag against him and instinctively tenses.

"'Mis?"

There's huff of air that's probably supposed to be a laugh, though it only comes out as pained wheeze.

"'M fine," is the tired reply – and obvious untruth.

Porthos can't help but snort.

"Yeah, 'course you are."

Aramis clears his throat, releasing a series of small, dry coughs.

"Mission?" he asks hoarsely and Porthos releases a heavy, frustrated breath. He isn't upset with Aramis – even when he should be, he has a hard time staying annoyed at their roguish Ranger – but with this whole, shitty situation.

"Yeah. We hit a few bumps, but it's all taken care of."

Aramis shivers and Porthos leans down to pick up the blanket that'd been discarded sometime during the fit. He himself feels like a living furnace, but the heat is a small price to pay for his friend's comfort.

"Where?"

"Iran."

He can practically hear the cogs turning in Aramis' mind.

"Don' remember," he eventually mumbles, and Porthos clears his throat, firmly shoving down the fear.

It doesn't matter that he knows it's only the fever playing tricks on his brother's mind, this constant repeating of questions still makes him uneasy.

"Tha's alright."

"You?" A cough. "Athos?"

"We're both fine," Porthos assures. "You should rest, Aramis. We're safe for now."

"Mmm." The Ranger swallows, body tensing as another shudder runs through him, and breathes out, "RV?"

"We'll be there soon," Porthos promises. "Now sleep."

Aramis gives a breathy chuckle.

"Bossy." He's silent for so long Porthos thinks he's fallen back to sleep, before mumbling, "Next time, I opt for a mechanical ride."

Porthos huffs.

"Yeah, brother, me too." He'd be fucking over the moon if they never saw one of those treacherous, mutated horses ever again – and if he does see one, he'll fucking shoot it on sight, before it can lay eyes on any of his brothers.

They'd thought it funny at the time, when Aramis had leaned in to scratch his ride just to be rewarded with camel snot all over his face; Porthos had laughed so hard that Athos had had to order him to silence, lest they draw the attention of every militia man in the country.

That seems like an awful long time ago, now.

Porthos sighs, absently running a hand up and down his brother's back, the latter now once again claimed by a fitful sleep.

"We good?" he asks, without looking up.

Athos moves away from the entrance and lets the drapery fall, the droll in his voice as apparent as ever.

"Despite the fact that he seemed insistent on waking every creature within a five-mile radius, everything seems to be clear."

Although it would have gone unnoticed by anyone who did not know him well, Porthos can hear the carefully controlled worry in his voice and it makes his own stomach clench.

"We should reach the rendezvous point by tomorrow afternoon," Athos continues, resuming his previous position in front of them. "Treville will most likely have scouts placed along the route. A Dust Off should be ready for take-off by the time we arrive."

"Hope they're sendin' one that's equipped," Porthos murmurs, glancing down at their ailing third.

"We don't have time to wait for a MEDEVAC," Athos reminds him, and Porthos knows that he's right. "However, considering our impeccable track record, I'm sure Treville will have a medical team waiting for us at the hospital."

Porthos huffs, conceding the point.

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Athos stifle a yawn.

"Alright, that's it. I'm continuing the watch. You get some sleep."

Athos raises an eloquent eyebrow at him, but before he can say anything Porthos holds up a hand.

"Get some sleep," he repeats. "You look like shit, and I'd rather not drag you around too."

"As always, your words warm me, Porthos," Athos replies dryly. He doesn't argue though, so Porthos considers that a win.

Athos leans back against the stone wall, arms crossed and his signature hat drawn to cover his eyes.

"Wake me an hour before sunrise."

Porthos nods, though his friend can't see it.

"You got it."

And thus began the second part of a silent night of vigil.

~Les Inséparables~

Dawn comes both too soon and not soon enough for Athos' liking.

They make it through the mountains without incident, an enemy van passing a bit too close for comfort at one point being the most exciting part of the day. Aramis doesn't wake again, though he becomes restless sometime around noon, moaning and coughing so hard it's a wonder he stays unconscious through it all. The retching starts soon after, clearly painful by the way their friend whimpers, and Athos knows that the worry and helplessness standing stark on Porthos' face are mirrored on his own.

The last trinkets of sunlight find them a mere mile from the RV point. They're approached two miles out by Étienne, who casts one look at the Ranger dangling limply between them before hauling out his Motorola and requesting the much sought-after Dust Off.

They are out of Iran and in the air, on their way to the hospital, ten minutes later.

Few words are spoken during the ride. The senior medic, a middle-aged woman named Bishop, gives Aramis a scrutinizing onceover, and Athos knows what she sees: the pallor, the shallow breaths, the obvious signs of fever, the beginning of blue tinging lips that has Athos internally freaking out. Bishop turns to him, doesn't say a word but only raises an eyebrow in silent question. Athos nods, once, in return, and that's all that needs to be said.

An oxygen mask is placed over Aramis' nose and mouth soon after.

Captain Treville and Dr. Lemay meet them when the chopper lands, both taking hold of the stretcher and helping Athos and Porthos carry the sniper out of the bird. The brief look of alarm flashing across the Captain's face when his eyes fall on their unconscious Ranger is like a snare around Athos' throat.

Lemay takes one look at their brother before turning to a near-standing nurse and saying, "We need to intubate." He motions to Athos and Porthos. "You two need to come with me and run some tests. For the time being, we will have no choice but to place you in quarantine."

The "with Aramis" doesn't need stating; Athos knows that Porthos would never leave their Ranger's side, and he himself has no such plans either.

Everything that happens next passes in a blur. They carry Aramis inside, through ICU and further in to the closed unit, where they maneuver him from the stretcher and onto a bed. It's unsettling to say the least, to witness the nurses guide the intubation tube down Aramis' throat. The man in questions twitches and moans weakly around a half-choked cough – there being no time for anesthetics – but he doesn't wake, his body seemingly too exhausted to care about the intrusion.

When the tube has been inserted, Aramis is wheeled away for radiography, Lemay in the lead.

It's all Athos can to do be led the other way with Porthos, fighting the urge to run after them.

~Les Inséparables~

"The fuck does that mean!"

"Porthos, put him down…"

"This's Aramis we're talkin' about!"

"I know," Lemay says, surprisingly calm for someone who is being faced with the full force of Porthos' fury. But then, it's hardly the first time he's confronted by the famous protectiveness of the Inseparables. "And I'm sorry, but I am a doctor, a scientist, not a miracle worker. I can't simply invent a cure. If I could, I would. But I can't."

Porthos stares at him, body trembling – not in anger, Athos knows, but with helplessness and fear for their brother.

"Ain't there anything you can do for him?"

The pleading in Porthos' voice is so raw that Athos has to look away. His eyes are instinctively drawn to the still form on the bed: hair matted against his pale face, large bruises under his eyes, cheeks sallow. It's been three days since their return, three goddamn days and Aramis still hasn't showed a single sign of waking up. It's unnerving, to say the least, seeing him this still. So quiet. Athos longs for that infuriating charmer's smile: for those dark eyes, open and aware, sparkling with mischief. The body lying in that bed, drowning in the clinical white of hospital sheets and with a tube down his throat, the consistent beeping of the heart monitor the only sign that he is indeed alive… it isn't Aramis.

He looks like a corpse, and it's fucking terrifying.

"We're giving him type I and III interferons to help his immune system," Lemay says, firmly but not unkindly. "I'm afraid that's all we can do. The rest is up to him."

Porthos growls, but it's the sound of an animal hurting, not one ready to pounce.

"Athos, are you hearin' this?"

"I am," Athos says calmly, from where he stands at the foot of the bed. "We knew the potential forecast as soon as he started showing symptoms. We also know that Aramis is a fighter, and he will not let this best him." He steps forward and places a hand on Porthos' arm, feels the tenseness of the muscles underneath. "There is nothing else to be done, and shoving the good doctor up a wall won't change anything." He squeezes. "Put him down, Porthos."

Porthos doesn't move at first, only stares at Lemay, as if pure want could make the man come up with a solution. But eventually he deflates and releases his hold. He doesn't say anything, but the slump of his shoulders speaks volumes as he walks over to the chair he's been occupying since their arrival and all but falls into it.

Lemay meets Athos' eyes, somehow succeeding in keeping an air of professionalism despite the slightly wrinkled clothes.

"I am sorry," he says quietly, sincerely. "There really is nothing more I can do."

"I know," Athos says, the words coming out scratchy and oddly thick.

God, he's tired.

He clears his throat.

"Thank you."

Lemay nods, and with a last glance over at the bed's occupant – and his guardian – he exits the room.

Athos drags a hand down his face.

Aramis might be the only one who is infected, but this disease is well on its way to killing all of them.

He walks over to Porthos and places a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Sorry," his friend mutters after a stretch of silence, and Athos ducks his head.

"I know."

"I just can't…" Porthos pauses, releases a shaky breath. He rubs at his eyes, looking as exhausted as Athos feels. "Fuck, I hate this."

"I know," Athos repeats, softly. His eyes wander to their ailing third, and something inside of him falters.

He swallows, hard.

"I know."

~Les Inséparables~

The ascent from the deep, dark dredges of oblivion to consciousness is much slower, and requires much more effort, than he'd like. His head feels fuzzy. No, not entirely true; his whole being feels fuzzy.

Detached.

Adrift.

Like he's floating.

It should worry him that he can't seem to locate, and even less so move, his limbs, but he can't find the energy to care.

Memories dance at the edge of awareness, fleeting as the wind.

There's the sound of beeping somewhere to his left, its clear, even rhythm strangely soothing, and he somewhat absently registers the presence of something warm and solid next to him.

His lips twitch tiredly.

He isn't aware enough to place it, but he instinctively knows to trust it, without having to open his eyes.

Not that he thinks he could open them, even if he wanted to. His eyelids are leaden, the rest of his body filled with tar. He manages to roll his head to the side, and the softness that connects with his cheek is as close to bliss as Aramis has ever experienced. He releases a small sigh and works his tongue to lick dry lips, confused when he feels something soft and moist press down against it.

He frowns.

¿Qué demonios…?

"I think he's wakin' up," a voice murmurs nearby. "'Bout damn time."

Aramis is vaguely aware of a second presence approaching, but is mostly trying not to panic at the feeling of this foreign object taking up far too much space in his mouth. He can feel his lungs inflating and deflating with steady regularity, but there's something wrong with it, like it's out of his control, it doesn't feel right…

"Hey, easy Aramis," someone soothes. "You're alright. Calm down."

The steady increase of beep-beep-beep sears itself into his skull and he can't help the weak moan that escapes him, leaving him almost choking on whatever is forced down his windpipe.

"Aramis," a new voice speaks, an unmistakable edge of command to it that Aramis learned long ago not to ignore. "You need to Calm. Down."

There's a sudden weight on his left shoulder, squeezing reassuringly, and Aramis uses it to ground himself. Memories are slowly emerging from the cobwebs in his mind, disjointed at first before sluggishly starting to piece themselves together. He tries reaching for them again, to hurry them along, but they teasingly evade his approaches.

"I'll get Lemay," the second voice says, and a jolt runs through Aramis as he is suddenly able to place it. "Try to wake him."

Athos.

His eyelids flutter and he struggles to lift them; it's far harder than it has any right to be.

"That's it," the first voice – Porthos, he realizes with a pang of relief – encourages. "C'mon an' lemme see those pretty eyes of yours."

It takes a few tries, but eventually Aramis blinks his eyes open to the bleary image of Porthos, looking down at him with a mixture of cautious expectancy and childlike joy.

"You have no idea how good it is to see you," his friend says, face splitting into a grin. The pure force of his relief immediately has Aramis feeling guilty; though he can't really remember what it is that he's done.

He works his lips into something resembling a smile, because he can tell Porthos needs him to be alright, and the way his friend positively beams at him makes him feel instantly better.

"How're you feelin'?" Porthos asks, sobering a little, and Aramis instinctively opens his mouth to answer, but is once again reminded of its lodger.

His friend chuckles at whatever face he's making.

"Yeah I know. Not exactly what you wanna wake up to, is it? Don't worry though, it'll come out soon." Porthos tilts his head to the side and raises his voice, though his eyes stay firmly on Aramis. "Right?"

Aramis looks past his friend and to the doorway, where Athos and Dr. Lemay stand, relief tangible on both their faces.

Lemay smiles at him as he moves fully into the room.

"Aramis, my friend, it is good to see you finally joining us," he greets. "We were starting to get worried."

Judging by the haggard mien of his two teammates, they had been way past the stage of worrying, but Aramis doesn't comment. Mostly because, well, he can't.

Bright light suddenly invades his vision and Aramis would have flinched if his body hadn't seemed to weigh more than a block of concrete.

"Pupils reactive to light," Lemay mumbles. "A little slow, perhaps, but that's only to be expected."

The light, thankfully, disappears, and the man moves to look at something at Aramis' right.

"Your fever seems to finally have broken, too. It's down to 103," Lemay says, looking pleased.

Aramis blinks at him. Tries, and fails, to comprehend the words.

Down to 103.

Down to…

Well.

That sure explains why he's feeling so wretched.

"He is improving, then?" Athos says, and Aramis drags his eyes over to him.

Athos' gaze is assessing, unreadable to most, but Aramis sees the worry underneath and gives what he hopes is a reassuring half-smile. He is relieved when the other man visibly relaxes.

"So it would seem," Lemay says, jotting something down on a chart that suddenly materializes in his hands. "But we still need to be wary of possible complications."

"And the tube?" Porthos asks, eyeing the thing in Aramis' mouth with obvious suspicion.

"Will stay in for now," Lemay says. "Despite the promising outlook of the latest x-ray, his lungs need more time to properly heal…"

Aramis lets their voices drift into the background and just breathes, tries to make his own assessment of his well-being. When the only conclusion he's able to reach is that he feels like his entire body has been wrought inside out and then steamrolled – which he's pretty sure is not the case – he gives up.

"Do you remember what happened?"

The softly asked question effectively drags him back to the present, and Aramis sluggishly blinks up at Athos and reaches for the memories again. They seem to take pity on him, because some images start to emerge. He remembers heat. Constantly moving, moving, moving; his feet slipping. Porthos, steady at his side. Confusion. Tension. Caused by him, or so he thinks. Feeling so very, inexplicably tired. Darkness. Porthos at his back. Pain. Something like acid in his mouth, burning throat and chest, filling his lungs. Flying. Athos looking at him, blue eyes radiating silent concern.

But the images are fractured, murky at best, and make little sense in Aramis' jumbled mind.

Athos must see the indecision on his face, because he gives a small smirk and shakes his head.

"It doesn't matter. We can talk about it later."

Aramis wants to protest, but is suddenly having a hard time to come up with one single reason why he should.

Athos places a hand in his hair, fingers gently massaging his scalp, and Aramis' mind goes blessedly quiet.

"All is well, Aramis," he mumbles. "Rest. We will be here when you wake."

Someone squeezes his hand and Aramis' eyes wander, painstakingly slow, from Athos to find Porthos looking at him encouragingly.

Waves of fatigue wash over him, trying to pull him under.

But he isn't ready for that, just yet.

Blinking, he gives Porthos what he hopes is an inquiring look, eyes sliding to Athos and then back to his friend.

Porthos, God bless him, smiles softly.

"We're alright," he assures. "Just worried 'bout you, 's all."

The admission more than anything else – Lemay's words, his own assessment of his well-being, his disjointed memories – tells him just how bad it was, this time, and he squeezes his friend's hand weakly.

Glancing at the empty hospital bed next to his own, he gives Athos a pointed look.

Porthos laughs and the corner of Athos' lips twitch.

"Yes, we will rest, too," he drawls, expression fond, and Aramis manages another small quirk of the lips before allowing his eyes to fall closed, too tired to fight the overwhelming fatigue.

The sensation of a hand in his hair and the belief that all is, indeed, well, is the last thing Aramis registers before he lets himself sink into the sweet, velvet embrace of oblivion.

A/N: If anyone's interested, the disease intended is MERS, a respiratory illness that was first reported in 2012 in Saudi Arabia. Though it's thought to originate from some, as of yet unknown, species of bat, it is through camels that humans have contracted the disease. Since September 2012, WHO can confirm over 1,700 cases and 624 deaths. There is still no cure.

So, what do you think? Is there any point in me continuing down this path? And how would you feel about a short epilog (that I may or may not have lying around in my dumpster of fics)? Let me know your thoughts!

All the best to you all,

Linguam