Here be random short stories or drabbles I write/have written without prior planning.

My ongoing multi-chapter story is so cumbersome, I occasionally need to step away from it, flex my fingers a bit and simply indulge. And that entails a general forgoing of plot and logic; shameless unoriginality, and stuff that more often than not dangles in the air – in other words, passages from the Musketeers fandom to be read like quick snacks instead of full meals. Of couse, they will mostly be hurt/comfort. Knowing myself, most of them will be Athos-centric, but I rarely sideline the others.

The first one is a quick little piece I felt bad that would never develop into a full story.

(I will so regret doing this in the morning...)

I. Escape from a battleground.

Aramis is struggling under Athos's weight. His feet are catching on pebbles in the debris, a low crunching sound under his boots as the dirt screeches beneath their combined weight. Dust swirls in the air, filling into his eyes, and he is constantly blinking, trying to keep it out and squinting to see the camp beyond the orange mist. The air is thick, hot and sticky as he breathes in through his nostrils, his scarf unable to fully filter the particles hanging in the air. Drawing harsh breaths, he re-adjusts Athos' arm on his shoulder to get a better grip.

"Hang on," he grinds out between his teeth, his low voice muffled to the extent of incomprehensible, but the encouragement is as much for himself as it is for Athos. "Hang on my friend," he says, breathing hard, eyes fixed determinedly ahead even though he can't really see anything. "We're almost there."

There's the faintest of groans from Athos, but it is so low and gets so swallowed by the shouts and cries of the raging battle around them, Aramis might as well have imagined it. He's more dragging than aiding his friend as they trudge towards where the French camp must be, and he's painfully aware of the slick wetness in his own hand where he's struggling to grip Athos's back, soaking through the shredded linen of the wounded man's shirt. He has to be quick. For Athos's sake Aramis has to be quick.

He can feel Athos's already feeble strength drain, can feel him slumping forward, unable to propel himself onwards anymore, feet uncooperative as they drag uselessly over the dirt with Aramis' each laboured step. Aramis holds out his free hand and gently places it on Athos's chest without halting his efforts to march on; he can't have Athos fall over now, as he fears he won't be able to get his friend back to his feet. They have to reach the camp, there is no other choice, no other option. Aramis stubbornly refuses to consider the alternative.

Time ceases to exist.

He's no longer aware of the words of encouragement he's muttering between every painful breath. The dust seems only to get thicker instead of clearing out, the sounds of battle behind him don't seem to fade at all – could the battle be encroaching on them, despite the distance they must have put between themselves and the field? How long has he been struggling to get themselves in the clear now? Five minutes? Fifteen? An hour? It can't be long now. It can't be long before they reach the camp. Athos's weight has increased tenfold – is that possible at all? – and his shoulder is aching, he's automatically readjusting their balance whenever Athos slips. He's no longer feeling the wetness in his palm where it hangs onto his friend. Move on. One foot in front of the other; keep moving forward. Never stop. Never halt.

The world consists of only a red, dusty mist, and Athos's weight.

And then, suddenly, Porthos is there, right by his side.

For some reason, Aramis isn't surprised. He should be, for Porthos has miraculously materialized beside him, swinging Athos's limp arm over his shoulders and shouting "I've got you!" towards him, not wasting precious time by stopping, but the sudden evaporation of Athos's weight throws him off balance and the world tilts to a corner, his heart skipping a confused beat.

But there's someone else now on his side. An arm slides around his waist, keeping him straight and taking off some of his weight. Without looking, he knows it's d'Artagnan. The support is much needed and Aramis feels relief, but they are still moving onwards, getting away from danger.

/

Next thing he's aware of is the hush of a slight breeze amongst leaves, the soft crunch of weed and foliage as he's being lowered to the ground. He blinks heavily through the exhaustion that now assaults him with the vigour of the last Spaniard he fought off. He notices, as he gives in, that the air is clear; they're surrounded by high trees and are on a rough, bumpy ground, somewhere deep in a forest, and he doesn't wonder how they've come to be transformed from the thick of the battlefield into this greenery.

Someone pulls down the scarf covering his face –he'd forgotten it was there- and the sudden rush of fresh air is like a gentle slap into awareness.

He pulls in a deep, loud breath, but it catches in his chest. He tries another, and then another without releasing the first one, but the air feels like it's stumbling on rough terrain as it crashes through his windpipe, unable to flow freely into his lungs. He turns confused eyes to d'Artagnan, who's squatting close to his face.

"Easy," he's saying, "Easy, Aramis, slow down."

Slow down what?

Realization dawns gradually as his head continues to clear at an agonizingly slow pace. He is struggling to breathe, noticing with detached interest that he must have overexerted himself, and then it makes more sense that his breaths are tearing into his chest, loud and painful, and that he needs to control himself and slow it down. He nods, concentrating on modulating his breathing, head bent down and staring at the fallen leaves between his sprawled legs. It is when his fingers begin to relax that he notices he's been clawing at the leather of d'Artagnan's arm. He lets go, arm dropping down to rest on his leg.

Tipping his head skywards, he closes his eyes and focuses on regaining full control, feeling his senses slowly returning to him.

"Here."

He gratefully accepts the waterskin d'Artagnan is holding out. Taking a few glorious sips is all Aramis needs to regain his composure.

Handing the waterskin back, he rounds on towards his right.

"Athos?"

/

Porthos has lain their friend against the side of the road. With his back against the gentle slope, Athos looks almost comfortable, of all things. Porthos is removing his shredded shirt. Aramis moves close, pushing Athos's hair back from his face and feels a stab of utter dread at the sight of the closed eyes.

"The water," he says tightly, holding out his hand without even turning. The waterskin is dutifully handed to him, and Aramis gently slides his free hand behind Athos's head.

"Athos," he calls softly. "Athos, wake up my friend. You must wake up. Athos."

Porthos has finished tearing apart the soiled shirt. He swears loudly upon seeing the state of Athos's torso even as d'Artagnan sucks in a breath. Aramis briefly closes his eyes with a sigh before opening them and resuming his efforts to rouse his friend.

"Athos."

Finally he is rewarded with a moan, a fluttering of the eyelids before the thoroughly unfocused gaze slowly wanders to him, and hangs on.

"We're out," Aramis breathes, unable to help it as he sags just a little forward, just a little too close to Athos's face, their foreheads almost touching, but Aramis needs this. Needs the closeness in this moment, needs to anchor himself as much as Athos is tethering himself to him. "We're out."

One shuddering breath, fingers of one hand clenching around the bloodied cloth of Athos's shirt, and Aramis is back in control.

Battle be damned. Orders, generals, rules -

It's only Athos, and himself, and Porthos, and d'Artagnan.

They're getting out of here.

Now.