A/N: I'm back with another set of challenges, though it's just a set that I've put together at random for myself. If anyone is curious about them, I'm happy to post them somewhere. Many of the stories are likely to be in the modernAU I've been working on, which is now called the Windy City Musketeers, and the stories may follow up on some of those in Thirty-One Days Hath October. This one, for example, is a follow-up to chapter 27: Surrender.

Summary: Treville watches over an ill Aramis as he sleeps when the young man has the first of many nightmares after showing up on his doorstep.

Warnings: Mentions of massacre and abortion (nothing graphic), depression, PTSD, flashbacks, panic attacks (Aramis is a mess)

At a Loss

Sitting in the half-lit den, watching as an old friend and former soldier of his struggles to breathe and fights painful memories is not how Treville imagined his night would go. Still, as unexpected as Aramis' arrival on his doorstep a few hours ago was, while Treville and Sarah were in the middle of playing a card game and watching Christmas movies with Ben and Tim, he can't find it in him to be angry. Not with the young man at the least. His former friends who left him in his time of need, those are the ones Treville's truly angry with. Furious with them for their ease in abandoning the code that binds soldiers together on and off the battlefield.

Sarah is off to bed, after having called Maria to let her know about Aramis' arrival. It took a lot of convincing to keep Maria from jumping in her car and making the four-hour drive to see her older brother. Aramis is the middle of five children and the only brother. Treville always suspected that his growing up in the middle of four sisters attributed to his charm with women and his respect for women. Never once did he have to reprimand Aramis for improper proper behavior with women during his ROTC days, not like he had to with the other men.

Treville listens closely to Aramis, both to his breathing and his speaking. The most Treville has ever been able to find out is that Aramis led an ill-fated mission resulting in the deaths of 20 children and every member of his team, save for Aramis himself, who was very nearly on death's door, likely knocking for entry, when he was rescued. Anything more than that has been sealed as part of the investigation or for the privacy of those involved. He's heard the rumors though, the whispers as he asked around in the various military circles he's still familiar with. Aramis has been labeled incompetent, a failure, worthless, a coward. At that was at best. At worse, he is a traitor and deserved more than a discharge from the Navy.

None of it Treville believes.

He's known this young man since he came into his recruitment office, obviously distraught, though he did his best to hide it, wanting to enlist. Treville managed to get Aramis' home phone number and delay the young man long enough for his dad to arrive. It was during that long hour of waiting that Aramis finally told him what he hadn't told anyone. The one reason for him to throw aside a full scholarship to DePaul for the military. Isabel, her betrayal, and his unborn child. He hadn't thought about the long-term consequences but was prepared to step-up when she told him two months later that their night in the back of his truck had left her pregnant. But then she made a decision and his child was dead. It was her choice, he knew, but Treville hadn't seen a young man more distraught than Aramis at loss of his child. He wasn't surprised when Aramis found him in the ROTC office on the first day of college orientation, joining the Navy the same day. The young man was better, but still not whole.

Today, tonight, he is worse than Treville has ever seen.

When Aramis cries out suddenly, a call for someone that's louder than the rest of his mutterings, Treville jumps to his feet. As he sits on the coffee table, inches from Aramis, the young man is louder, his voice filled with anguish and tears.

"Aramis," Treville calls out, loud enough that he hopes to be heard over the pleas. When Aramis continues as if he didn't speak, Treville tries again, louder, closer to his old drill instructor tone, the tone that always stopped Aramis in his tracks, whatever dangerous path he was going down. It doesn't work. Treville sighs. His last option is trying physically to wake the man, which he's hesitant to do. He doesn't have to be a doctor to know that Aramis is suffering from PTSD. But he also knows he has few options left and he can't stand leaving Aramis trapped in his fever fueled nightmare.

He reaches out to lightly touch the young man's shoulder, calling out his name. At the barest touch of his fingers, Aramis jumps and nearly falls off the couch in a coughing, hacking, sputtering mess. If Treville hadn't been there, he would've landed on the floor, likely smacking his body on the coffee table on the way down. But then, Treville muses, if he hadn't been there Aramis wouldn't've had cause to jump like this.

It's into Treville's quick arms that Aramis falls and it's Treville who takes the smack against the coffee table as he goes to his knees to rescue the young man from more unwarranted damage to his body. He holds on to Aramis' thin frame as the man coughs, ignoring the smell of the streets, of Chicago. The change of clothes and quick wash with a warm wet towel could only do so much, after all. Tomorrow, he'll have to wrangle Aramis into the tub for a proper bath. And cut back the hair and beard. There was no hope to salvage either with the knots.

When Treville hears a tell-tale change in the tone of coughing, he grabs a nearby bucket as Aramis brings up pale yellow bile. That, barring a few spare hacks, is the end of the coughing. Treville sets the bucket aside and grabs a towel to wipe away the string of bile tinged saliva that's clung to Aramis' chin. The young man doesn't take notice as he's working desperately to catch his breath.

"Steady breaths, 'Mis," Treville says, the old nickname coming back easily. It was a private nickname that Aramis allowed only the closest of family and friends to use.

When Aramis doesn't respond and his breathing only grows more desperate and shallow, panic becoming clear, Treville grabs Aramis' hand, ignoring the flinch and weak resistance to put the hand, palm down on his own chest.

"Feel my breathing, 'Mis," Treville says calmly, forcing himself to breathe steadily. "Match my pace. In…. Out." There's a subtle change, but Treville sees it clearly enough. "That's it. Keep it up." He keeps his tone light and encouraging.

Treville doesn't care how long it takes. He does care that it works. Aramis is still pale, feverish, and exhausted, but he's not panicking and he's not desperate for his next breath. Treville settles him on the floor, his back leaning against the couch, feet stretched out in front of him. Treville mimics the position, keeping his body close enough to just touch Aramis. The young man isn't asleep, but Treville doubts that he's truly alert.

Because Aramis is calm, Treville leaves him be. When the young man starts shivering, he grabs a blanket from the couch and wraps it around the two of them because the extra body heat will only help Aramis to stop shivering sooner. And there's precious little else Treville can think of to do to help him.

It works and, again, how long it takes, Treville doesn't know. He'd spend hours here if it meant helping Aramis. This young man who's been through more than is fair.

It might be morning, but Treville knows it's not because minutes in crisis don't really tick away that quickly. They are weathered by the slow force of time. Whenever it is, he hears something he doesn't expect and it eases some the band that's been tightening around his heart in the hours since Aramis arrived.

"Cap'n?" The voice is weak, scratchy, and nasally, but he would recognize it even heavily muffled by static.

"I'm here, 'Mis." Treville resists the urge to reach out a hand to pull the man in closer as he might have done years ago when he was still getting over the loss of his child and end of his first love.

"Why?" There's confusion there. It's more than that though. It's confusion, hurt, apathy, worry. The emotions swirling around in Aramis are too much for Treville. The pain in his voice wrenches painfully as Treville's own heart. And then, giving into old habits, he does pull Aramis closer. The young man doesn't fight, but he does flinch and mutters an apology which Treville shushes because it's not needed, not between old friends. When Aramis is leaning against his legs pulled up loosely, head leaning slightly awkwardly against Treville's own thanks to their nearly even height, Treville finally speaks.

"I don't know, 'Mis." Treville never had to inform any parents of the loss of their child. He was too old and better suited to train the adult children to go off and fight in battles not their own so someone else could tell their parents they'd died when the wars started. But he imagines this might have been how it felt to have to give that news. "I don't know, 'Mis, but I'm here." Treville feels terrible for his pathetic answer but it's the best he can give.

Aramis doesn't speak again for a while, giving a sigh that turns into a few coughs, which, thankfully, don't become anything prolonged. And when Sarah comes down at the crack of dawn, having barely slept herself over the worry about a young man she knows mostly from stories her husband tells about his antics and heartaches, she finds them still both under the blanket, Aramis leaning against Treville, calm and quiet save for his ragged, wheezing breathing. Both might be asleep; their eyes are peacefully shut. It doesn't matter because the despair and heartache are lessened. Now is the time for healing, for listening, and for family because there's no doubt in Sarah's heart that Aramis is now a part of theirs.