Hello! I'm working on the rest; it'll be Aramis with one other character each time, the first one is d'Artagnan.
* 1. D’Artagnan and the unwanted anatomy lesson
D’Artagnan hums out a long shaky breath and looks worryingly green around the gills. Aramis gives him a concerned look.
‘Alright?’
‘Um, yeah. Yeah.’ He swallows and shoots a quick glance back down the street.
‘D’Artagnan – ‘
He grimaces and attempts a neutral expression that is less than convincing. ‘It’s fine. It looks fine.’
Aramis has to grit his teeth quite hard not to growl in frustration because it doesn’t feel fine. An encounter with a particularly vicious street gang on patrol resulted in a brief but intense fight, and though Aramis and d’Artagnan emerged the victors – more or less – being yanked from his horse has left Aramis with a sickly hot ache in his shoulder, and apparently it looks so distorted it’s making d’Artagnan feel sick.
D’Artagnan squares his jaw and raises both hands. ‘Sorry. I’m ready, tell me again.’
Aramis tells him, and d’Artagnan reaches at last for the arm that’s dangling heavy and useless at his side. Then he stops.
‘Aramis – it’s not that I don’t want to help but don’t you think I’ll make it worse?’
‘I have every confidence in you,’ Aramis grates out.
‘It’s… the bones are all out of…’ D’Artagnan gives another wretched glance to the back of Aramis’ shoulder.
‘It’ll be fine. Just grip, like I told you…’
D’Artagnan gives him another doubtful look.
‘You saw me set Athos’ shoulder two months ago.’
‘Yeah, but that was…’
Aramis breathes out carefully, eyes on the roof line opposite. D’Artagnan takes hold of his wrist with clammy hands.
‘Aramis?’
‘Mm?’
‘I didn’t really watch you setting Athos’ shoulder.’
‘Ah.’
‘Sorry…’
Aramis grunts and shuffles a little more upright.
‘It’s easy. You’re just going to pull, as hard as you can, until it moves back in.’
‘I’ll pull your arm off.’
‘We’ll risk it.’
D’Artagnan gives him a doubtful look, and Aramis returns a smile so strained he can feel it tight in his cheeks; it seems to unsettle d’Artagnan even further.
‘Alright, you look awful. Does it really hurt that much? Don’t answer that.’
Aramis just breathes. D’Artagnan shuffles himself into position and braces his foot against Aramis’ ribs. ‘Just pull?’ he asks again.
‘Mm.’ Aramis concentrates on gritting his teeth and keeping his tongue well back out of their way.
‘Are you ready?’
‘D’Artagnan, please –‘
‘Right.’ There’s another three-second pause as d’Artagnan nods grimly to himself, and then he pulls hard on Aramis’ arm, and the pain wrenches hot and sickly from his shoulder right across his ribcage and up to the base of his skull. D’Artagnan falters in alarm at the keening noise he can’t stifle, but remembers his instructions and doesn’t stop. The blank, white-hot moment stretches out, Aramis is certain he will pass out, and then the bones shift around one another and he grunts, harshly, and the pain recedes to a dull ache with sudden, unlooked-for mercy.
Aramis pants, eyes closed, five harsh breaths before he can gasp, ‘thank you.’
D’Artagnan scrambles away from him abruptly and Aramis hears the unmistakeable sound of him losing his breakfast in the gutter.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, wiping his mouth on his wrist as he shuffles back to his side.
‘It’s – fine. You alright?’
‘I should be asking you that,’ d’Artagnan says sheepishly.
‘I’m much better.’
D’Artagnan huffs out a relieved breath. ‘Never make me do that again,’ he says fervently.
‘I’m in no great hurry to repeat the experience myself,’ Aramis says, carefully levering himself to his feet. He’ll get Porthos to help him make a sling when they get back, for now, he just tucks his arm inside his jacket to keep it steady. He offers his good hand to d’Artagnan to pull him to his feet; d’Artagnan gives him a sceptical look and hauls himself up using the wall instead. Aramis pats him on the shoulder, partly to reassure him, and partly to irritate him into releasing some tension.
‘Fine job, d’Artagnan. Perhaps you have a talent for doctoring. Would you like to be my apprentice?’
D’Artagnan shakes him off grumpily but does look a little less pale. ‘I’d rather eat my own eyeballs, Aramis, thanks.’
Aramis would shrug, but it’s not a good idea just now.
FILL: 5 times fic
*
1. D’Artagnan and the unwanted anatomy lesson
D’Artagnan hums out a long shaky breath and looks worryingly green around the gills. Aramis gives him a concerned look.
‘Alright?’
‘Um, yeah. Yeah.’ He swallows and shoots a quick glance back down the street.
‘D’Artagnan – ‘
He grimaces and attempts a neutral expression that is less than convincing. ‘It’s fine. It looks fine.’
Aramis has to grit his teeth quite hard not to growl in frustration because it doesn’t feel fine. An encounter with a particularly vicious street gang on patrol resulted in a brief but intense fight, and though Aramis and d’Artagnan emerged the victors – more or less – being yanked from his horse has left Aramis with a sickly hot ache in his shoulder, and apparently it looks so distorted it’s making d’Artagnan feel sick.
D’Artagnan squares his jaw and raises both hands. ‘Sorry. I’m ready, tell me again.’
Aramis tells him, and d’Artagnan reaches at last for the arm that’s dangling heavy and useless at his side. Then he stops.
‘Aramis – it’s not that I don’t want to help but don’t you think I’ll make it worse?’
‘I have every confidence in you,’ Aramis grates out.
‘It’s… the bones are all out of…’ D’Artagnan gives another wretched glance to the back of Aramis’ shoulder.
‘It’ll be fine. Just grip, like I told you…’
D’Artagnan gives him another doubtful look.
‘You saw me set Athos’ shoulder two months ago.’
‘Yeah, but that was…’
Aramis breathes out carefully, eyes on the roof line opposite. D’Artagnan takes hold of his wrist with clammy hands.
‘Aramis?’
‘Mm?’
‘I didn’t really watch you setting Athos’ shoulder.’
‘Ah.’
‘Sorry…’
Aramis grunts and shuffles a little more upright.
‘It’s easy. You’re just going to pull, as hard as you can, until it moves back in.’
‘I’ll pull your arm off.’
‘We’ll risk it.’
D’Artagnan gives him a doubtful look, and Aramis returns a smile so strained he can feel it tight in his cheeks; it seems to unsettle d’Artagnan even further.
‘Alright, you look awful. Does it really hurt that much? Don’t answer that.’
Aramis just breathes. D’Artagnan shuffles himself into position and braces his foot against Aramis’ ribs. ‘Just pull?’ he asks again.
‘Mm.’ Aramis concentrates on gritting his teeth and keeping his tongue well back out of their way.
‘Are you ready?’
‘D’Artagnan, please –‘
‘Right.’ There’s another three-second pause as d’Artagnan nods grimly to himself, and then he pulls hard on Aramis’ arm, and the pain wrenches hot and sickly from his shoulder right across his ribcage and up to the base of his skull. D’Artagnan falters in alarm at the keening noise he can’t stifle, but remembers his instructions and doesn’t stop. The blank, white-hot moment stretches out, Aramis is certain he will pass out, and then the bones shift around one another and he grunts, harshly, and the pain recedes to a dull ache with sudden, unlooked-for mercy.
Aramis pants, eyes closed, five harsh breaths before he can gasp, ‘thank you.’
D’Artagnan scrambles away from him abruptly and Aramis hears the unmistakeable sound of him losing his breakfast in the gutter.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, wiping his mouth on his wrist as he shuffles back to his side.
‘It’s – fine. You alright?’
‘I should be asking you that,’ d’Artagnan says sheepishly.
‘I’m much better.’
D’Artagnan huffs out a relieved breath. ‘Never make me do that again,’ he says fervently.
‘I’m in no great hurry to repeat the experience myself,’ Aramis says, carefully levering himself to his feet. He’ll get Porthos to help him make a sling when they get back, for now, he just tucks his arm inside his jacket to keep it steady. He offers his good hand to d’Artagnan to pull him to his feet; d’Artagnan gives him a sceptical look and hauls himself up using the wall instead. Aramis pats him on the shoulder, partly to reassure him, and partly to irritate him into releasing some tension.
‘Fine job, d’Artagnan. Perhaps you have a talent for doctoring. Would you like to be my apprentice?’
D’Artagnan shakes him off grumpily but does look a little less pale. ‘I’d rather eat my own eyeballs, Aramis, thanks.’
Aramis would shrug, but it’s not a good idea just now.