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Unfit for Duty
A Musketeers story
By Deana

Takes place after episode 10 of season 1.
This story is NOT a deathfic!

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"Aramis?"

The voice was familiar, but it sounded as if it was under water…or maybe he was. He recognized the voice, but at the same time, he had no idea who it belonged to.

"Aramis?"

Suddenly a hand gripped his shoulder, and Aramis looked up into the smiling face of d'Artagnan.

"Were you falling asleep?" their youngest asked, looking like he was about to laugh.

"Not unless he sleeps with his eyes open," came Athos' voice.

Aramis looked around, seeing all three of his friends looking at him where he sat. He raised a hand and ran it through his hair.

Porthos frowned. His friend didn't look like his usual self. "You all right?"

Aramis nodded. The action unexpectedly made him feel lightheaded. "I'm fine. Maybe I was dozing off." He didn't know what else could've caused such an odd episode.

"Did you not sleep well last night?" Athos asked.

Aramis hesitated. He'd slept fine.

They took his hesitation to mean that he hadn't, and they all had the same thought: Savoy. Aramis had been plagued with terrible nightmares since that hellish event, and even five years later, they still reared their ugly head.

"You're just tired," said Porthos, relieved to find out the 'reason' for whatever it was that had just happened to his friend. "I know what you need: a drink."

Aramis smiled. Though he was puzzled over what had just overtaken him, he decided to act like nothing had happened. He smiled and stood, turning to take his hat off the table. He grew instantly lightheaded again, but since his back was turned, he was able to hide it. Putting his hat on, he kept his eyes lowered as he gestured 'after you' to Porthos, who was standing closest to him.

As they left the garrison, Aramis found that the lightheadedness didn't leave, and he desperately hoped that he wasn't falling ill as they headed to the nearest tavern.

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Porthos refilled everyone's mugs as he regaled d'Artagnan with an embellished tale of his supreme bravery. Athos sat quietly and never contradicted him, even when Porthos accidentally—or maybe purposely—mixed two separate incidents together.

D'Artagnan was riveted on him, listening to every word. Athos wasn't sure if the young Gascon was believing it all or not.

Aramis was quiet too, after not even finishing his second drink, and not touching his mug after Porthos refilled it. He was blinking tiredly, and suddenly tipped a little to the side away from Porthos, who he was sitting next to.

Athos, across from Aramis, reached over and grabbed his arm, stopping him from possibly falling.

Aramis' eyes opened all the way and he looked at Athos, confused.

"Looks like someone has had too much!" d'Artagnan said, as he lifted his mug and drank.

Athos knew that to not be the case, as he'd seen how much Aramis hadn't drank. "Aramis?" he said.

Aramis blinked again. "I'm just tired," he told him, echoing Porthos' earlier words.

Athos' eyes narrowed. "Is something wrong that you aren't telling us?"

"No," Aramis said. How could he tell his friend that he had no idea what had happened to him earlier and that he was lightheaded for no apparent reason?

Athos stared at his friend, but it was hard to read him, thanks to his own inebriated state. "You should go to bed."

Aramis nodded, which only made him even more lightheaded. What on Earth is going on? he asked himself.

Athos stood and drained his mug. "Time to go, gentlemen," he told the others. "We have another busy day tomorrow." Truth be told, he could've drank another bottle of wine on his own, but something was inwardly telling him to get Aramis back to the garrison.

Porthos and d'Artagnan finished their own drinks and stood with no complaints. They were training new Musketeer recruits in the art of swordplay, and knew that they had to be at their best.

Aramis stood slowly, trying not to seem obvious. He didn't understand where this persistent lightheadedness was coming from, and he certainly didn't want to fall flat on the floor in public.

The others were grabbing their hats and didn't notice.

Not long after, they'd arrived back at the garrison and headed up to their rooms, saying goodnight to each other.

Aramis felt a hand on his arm as he reached for his doorknob. He turned his head, trying to stop himself from openly reacting to the lightheadedness.

"Sleep well," said Athos. "You know where I am if you need me."

Obviously Athos didn't believe him when he said that nothing was wrong. Aramis smiled at him. "I'm fine. Thank you."

Athos gave him a stern look as if not believing him before walking away.

Aramis went into his room, but something prevented him from closing the door. It was, as he expected, Porthos.

"Nightmares again, Aramis?" Porthos asked, entering the room behind him.

Aramis knew that his best friend had a big heart and sympathized with him over the severe trauma that he'd been dealt during the mission in Savoy. Aramis sat in a chair with a sigh. "Sometimes," he said, vaguely.

Porthos nodded. "Want me to stay?"

Aramis smiled. Porthos had slept in a chair, on the floor, on a cot, and anything else in the room that he could find so that Aramis wouldn't be alone in the days after Savoy. Even weeks later, when his terrifying nightmares woke everyone in the surrounding rooms of the garrison, Porthos was always the first one to make it to Aramis' side, and wouldn't leave the room for the rest of the night. "You don't have to, I'm all right. I think I'll sleep well tonight."

"You sure?" Porthos asked.

Aramis nodded, even though it increased the lightheadedness. "I'm sure."

Porthos nodded back. "Okay. You better not be lyin'."

Aramis smiled again. "I'm not lying. I'm tired enough to sleep like a log."

Porthos nodded again. "All right." He stepped forward and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Night."

"Goodnight," Aramis replied. He watched as Porthos left, before closing his eyes and covering them with one hand, exhaling heavily. The lightheadedness felt even stranger with his eyes closed and he reopened them, wishing that he'd sat on his bed, not in the chair. It was a few minutes before he slowly stood and removed his weapons and jacket, shuffling over to his bed. He sat down and kicked off his boots before lying down still clothed. The lightheadedness was easier to deal with when flat, and as he drifted off to sleep, he hoped that he'd be fine in the morning.

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Bodies littered the ground, more than Aramis was able to comprehend. His head was throbbing painfully and his vision was blurred, making it even harder to see them. Snow fell around him and the cold was making him shiver terribly. All he could do was stare in shock at the carnage...twenty Musketeers dead...on a training mission?

Suddenly, Aramis found himself sitting on the floor beside his bed, breathing heavily. He looked around the room and wondered how he'd gotten out of bed...did he get up or simply fall out? He noticed that sunlight was streaming into the room; so it was morning. How had the night passed so quickly? It had to be very early, for he knew that after his odd behavior yesterday, one or more of his friends would soon be at his door.

Aramis took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he calmed down from the dream. The image of those slaughtered Musketeers would never leave his memory for the rest of his life, he was sure of it.

He must've dozed off, for there was a sudden knock at his door and he was startled.

"Aramis?" It was Athos.

Aramis quickly scrambled to his feet and sat on the side of his bed. "Come in," he called. Suddenly, he realized that the lightheadedness was barely there, compared to last night.

Athos walked in, dressed and ready for the day. He studied his friend for a moment before he said, "Did you have a more restful night?"

Aramis nodded and put on a fake smile. "Much more restful, I feel fine."

Athos wasn't sure whether to believe him, but he nodded. "Good. Hurry or you'll miss breakfast."

"I'll be right down," Aramis told him.

Athos nodded again and left.

Aramis sighed and stood, relieved when the lightheadedness didn't increase. It was barely there, just enough to remind him of its presence.

Minutes later, just as Aramis was picking up his jacket, there was another knock. "Come in, Porthos," he said.

The door opened and Porthos walked in. "Am I that predictable?"

Aramis smiled. "I simply know your knock, my friend."

Porthos made a face. "You can identify us by the way we knock?"

Aramis smiled wider. "Can't you?"

Porthos chuckled and sat down as Aramis buckled his belt over his jacket. "Sleep better last night? Any nightmares?"

Aramis shook his head. "None," he lied.

"Good," Porthos said. He picked up his friend's sword belt and handed it to him.

Aramis strapped it on before putting on his hat. He looked at Porthos and gave a theatrical sigh, inwardly hoping that the lightheadedness wouldn't come back. "Ready to face another day protecting France?"

Porthos nodded. "Always."

TBC