Chapter Text
Constance loves days when not all of her boys are sent to war. Admittedly, she usually only gets them because someone's been badly injured, but, still. Today, Aramis stays at home with her when the others leave for the garrison, confined to bed after being thrown from his horse in a skirmish. The mottled bruising down his side is absolutely ghastly to look at, but he hadn't cracked any ribs, thank God. He sprained his wrist, and probably cracked a bone in his arm, badly enough that they need to keep it wrapped (and he won't stop moaning about how he can't hold a sword or shoot until it heals, which is adorable and annoying in equal measure), but Constance is grateful that's the worst of it.
When the other three left that morning, Porthos was very explicit that Aramis not be allowed to leave the bed. That didn't really limit them, since the massive four-poster bed they'd acquired was practically an island--but then he'd caught Constance's wicked expression not half a second later and added, "And he can't put any weight or strain on that arm." Which really only cut the things they could do in half.
Still, Constance thinks a bit guiltily as she kneels naked between Aramis' legs and slides two slick fingers into his body, this is probably slightly more strenuous than Porthos would approve of.
"I'm not hurting you, am I?" she asks solicitously, when he stops moaning long enough to draw breath.
"No," he gasps, clearly fighting himself not to bend up backward off the bed. He looks almost ready to come again--she's been teasing him for quite a long time--and she's wondering if he'll do it from just her fingers this time. "No, you're--you're fine, keep going, please."
She scissors her fingers inside of him and Aramis chokes on his breath, his eyes fluttering shut. "Good," Constance says, drawing out the word with a smile. "I'd hate to make it worse. Then you'd have to spend even longer home with me." There are worse things, after all. They've both already come once, forced to be a little inventive because of his injuries. And she likes what they came up with, something they'd never tried before and will have to show the others: Aramis on his back, mindful of his side and arm, and Constance holding herself over him so they could use their mouths on each other, her knees on either side of his head so he could lick her while she sucked him. It was really one of the best ideas she's had in weeks.
Aramis makes a high, breathless sound of want, and it's one of Constance's very favorite sounds. She loves coaxing it out of him however she can. She pulls her hand out, adds a little more of the slippery salve they'd started buying in embarrassingly large quantities once everyone moved in, and dives back in, adding another finger just to hear him make that sound again.
He shakes, keening out her name in a low cry, and she takes pity on him. She wraps her other hand around his cock (untouched since they started this, oh, about half an hour ago) and Aramis' hips jerk, the motion of which startles another sound from him when it drives her fingers against that sweet spot Porthos taught her to hit.
"Go ahead," she says, keeping her grip light around his cock. She's learning not to be ashamed of the way she sometimes wants to order them around, and she's stopped blushing at the words she uses. "Fuck yourself on my fingers, Aramis. I know you want to."
He squeezes his eyes shut, head thrashing back and forth on the pillow, and moves, helpless to her commands. He pushes himself down onto her fingers, hips rolling shamelessly against her hand, and she loves seeing him brought to this point, where all he does is feel. It's gorgeous. She can feel her own arousal slick between her legs--she might make him use his mouth on her again after this, maybe straddling his shoulders so he can stay on his back (she is worried about his side, after all).
"More," Aramis gasps, and Constance bends to press a kiss to the dripping head of his cock. He whines, his hips shuddering up to her, then--amazingly--shakes his head and changes his motion, rocking back down onto her hand. "No--no, more of your hand, please, please, it's not enough--"
"It never is," she laughs, even as a rush of hot desire floods her from cheeks to cunt. She loves it when he begs for more--but he hasn't asked for four fingers ever, not from her, even if her hands are smaller than Porthos'. He feels relaxed enough, though, that she's willing to consider it. And she can't deny that she really, really wants to see him take that much of her.
She keeps a careful eye on his motion as she adds more salve and pushes her fingers back in, because if he twists that bruised side too much or gives even a hint of pain, she's ending this right here. He lets out another high, needy sound as she moves slowly back into him, and Constance smiles. "Talk to me, Aramis," she says, watching his expression shift as she stretches him. "Tell me how you feel."
His face is slack with desire and pleasure, eyes squeezed shut and lips parted, and she feels the shudders racing through his body from the inside out. "Good," he manages to say. "Good, it's good."
"It doesn't hurt?" He shakes his head, but he's glossed over pain before and Constance presses him. "Anywhere? Your side, your arm?"
"My side is fine, I can't even feel it, Constance, I swear, please--"
"All right," she whispers, kissing his chest. "All right, I've got you." She starts to move her hand in earnest, spreading her fingers and twisting them in him, and Aramis lets out a strangled cry, gasping for air as he moves with her, seeking more. Always wanting more, their Aramis.
He comes barely a minute later, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as he shakes, and Constance eases him through it, her chest warm with how much she feels for him just then. Aramis hides it well, but not being able to return to duty bothers him. He hates that Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan are out risking their lives and he can't be there to back them up.
She knows the feeling. She's intimately acquainted with it, in fact. So she's glad she can distract him, help some of his nerves and tension.
He whines as she slowly pulls her hand out of his body, his hips rocking down as if to keep her in him. Constance murmurs soothing nonsense, keeping her free hand on him to smoothe gently over his uninjured side. He always does that after they fuck him--like he can't bear to have them leave.
"I'm still here," she whispers, stretching up and laying herself along his good side so she can kiss him. "Still here, love."
He half-laughs, but it's a despairing little sound, and Constance's heart twists as she sees the shine in his eyes. He reaches for her, something pleading in his face, and she holds him close, trying to breathe around a sudden surge of guilt. Had she said something wrong? Had it been too intense, had she hurt him?
"Aramis?" she asks gently, when she can't stand it anymore. "Sweetheart, are you all right?"
He nods, but his whole body's tense, and he presses his face to the side of her neck. "Just stay for a moment," he whispers against her skin.
"Always," she says, and she strokes his back, pressing idle kisses to his hair for something to do.
Finally, he relaxes somewhat, and Constance is so, so relieved when he lifts his head to kiss her. There's still something fragile in his eyes, even if he's smiling some version of his usual cocky grin, and Constance holds him in the kiss a little longer than she would usually.
"I'm all right," he assures her when they part at last. One corner of his mouth tugs up slightly, ruefully. "But you probably refuse to believe that right now, don't you?"
"If you say so, I'll believe you," she says, and kisses his forehead. "You don't normally look like you're about to cry after we have sex, though, so if you feel up to explaining, I'd appreciate it." She doesn't want to pressure him, but--clearly, he's bottled up whatever it is for too long, if it leaks out like that.
Aramis sighs, and he curls into her, resting his head on her breast as they arrange themselves a little more comfortably, his bandaged arm across her chest and her arms around him. "I know it's ridiculous." He swallows, and his voice sounds so small. It hurts. Aramis is usually so confident.
"But?" she asks gently, when he's silent for a long moment.
He sighs, and she feels his eyes close, feels his long eyelashes brush her chest. "I'm always scared you're going to disappear," he whispers. "When you pull away. All of you."
She kisses his hair. "That's not ridiculous." Aramis has lost so many people he's loved--seen so many of them die, literally slip away, right before his eyes. Who wouldn't be afraid, after all that?
One corner of his mouth pulls up slightly, a faint approximation of his usual smile. "It is, a little. Totally irrational."
"No one says we need to be rational about what we feel in bed," she points out, and Aramis laughs softly, ducking his head against her chest. She smiles and strokes his shoulders, happy that she made him laugh. "Does explain a few things, though."
"Oh?" He looks up, his smile wider, more like him. "Which ones?"
"The way you're always asking us for more, for one." She kisses him once, just barely brushing her lips over his. "And here we thought you were just desperate for it. Turns out you miss us when we're gone."
He flushes, but it's a familiar, pleased flush, one that she's seen on him before and absolutely loves. "That's a good way to put it." He looks more relaxed, now that he's said it and she hasn't laughed at it.
"Is there anything we can do?" she asks then, stroking one hand across his brow, and she cups his jaw in one hand to tilt his face up to hers. "Anything to make you know we've got you, we're not going anywhere?"
Aramis smiles up at her, his dark eyes impossibly grateful. "I do love you, Constance," he murmurs, and stretches up to kiss her.
She holds the kiss for a long moment, and she loves that they can kiss like this now, slow and easy. He was always trying to impress her at the beginning. Now, they're comfortable with each other, and she can coax a lazy, messy kiss from Aramis the perfect lover. "You didn't answer my question," she says when they break apart. "Can we do anything for you, Aramis?"
He laughs, reaching up with his bandaged arm to run his fingers through the tangled mass of her curls. She tuts at him, taking his hand and gently lowering it back to his side, and Aramis chuckles. "Like you said," he says, tracing his nose along hers instead, "I always want more. So more is always better."
She considers it. Then, like a lightning strike, she remembers their first night together, toward the end, when Porthos was in Aramis and d'Artagnan was in her. And she remembers the way Athos had slid his hand down Aramis' back, pushed his fingers in beside Porthos' cock, the way Aramis shook in his arms and clung to him.
Someday, Athos had said, and Aramis and Porthos had both gasped in utter, blind need.
"Whatever you're thinking, I like the way it's making you blush," Aramis says, grinning at her.
She smiles at him, tracing a finger along the elegant swoop of his collarbone. "I was just remembering our first night."
His smile is slow and warm, and he kisses her. "Oh?"
"Do you really think you could take Athos and Porthos at once?"
She asks it without any buildup, no preamble, no easing into it--she wants to know what his first, unguarded reaction is to the idea.
And she gets her answer when the dark centers of his eyes blow wide, and his cock jerks against her leg. He looks like he's stunned speechless.
Well. That's one way of knowing.
"I don't know," he says, his voice rough. "But I want to try."
Constance nods solemnly. She leans in and kisses him, and Aramis clutches at her face, his lips moving with aching, worshipful tenderness. She takes everything he gives her and gives it back tenfold.
They lie in bed, talking quietly, sharing kisses and gentle touches, until it starts to grow dark outside and their boys return.
Constance lifts her head as she hears the door unlock downstairs and low voices fill the quiet space. There's the rustle of cloaks, the rattle and clunk of weapons, and she can distinguish the individual voices now. Constance drops her head back down with a smile, running her fingers through Aramis' hair. He dozes against her chest--she soothed him to sleep a while ago, steadily petting his hair, and he looks peaceful for the first time in days.
The door opens carefully, quietly, with a single candle casting light in the darkening room, and she knows it's Porthos before he pokes his head through the door. She lifts a finger to her lips, smiling, and he grins at her. He must have taken his boots off downstairs, because he moves across the floor to her on surprisingly noiseless feet. He blows her a kiss as he lays carefully down on Aramis' other side, checking the state of what bruises he can see above the edge of the blanket.
Aramis lifts his head slightly at the shift in the bed, but as Porthos' body presses against him, he sinks back down, smiling. Aramis would know Porthos blindfolded in a dark room (and frequently has). "Porthos," he sighs, settling between them. "You're back early."
"It's been dark for two hours," Porthos chuckles quietly, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.
Constance feels Aramis frown against her chest, and she laughs, stroking his hair again. "You fell asleep, sweetheart."
"Oh." Aramis' brow smoothes out, and he twists his head to press a sleepy kiss to Porthos' lips. "Then you're right on time."
"How do you feel?" Porthos asks, refusing to get caught up in flirtation until he's assured himself of Aramis' well-being. He pulls the blanket down so he can see the rest of his side.
Aramis glances down at it, then shrugs, sinking back into Constance's softness and warmth. "Fine. A little sore." He grins against her breast. "Not in my side, though."
Porthos purses his lips and arches an eyebrow at Constance. "I said--"
"He was on his back the whole time," she says, holding up a hand to forestall his objections. "Absolutely nothing strenuous."
"She was the perfect nurse," Aramis assures him. "Extremely solicitous to my care and well-being. I came twice, and all I had to do was lie here."
Porthos rolls his eyes, but the corners of his eyes crinkle with warm affection. "I see." He's been stroking Aramis' back since he lay down, but this time his fingers move slowly and deliberately down Aramis' spine. Aramis sighs happily, arching his back into Porthos' touch. "Oh," Porthos says then, sounding interested, and Aramis' breath gives a tell-tale hitch. Constance can't see more than the flex of muscles in Porthos' forearm, but she's sure Porthos is fingering him. From the look on Porthos' face, Aramis still has to be loose. "Was this recently?"
"Few hours ago," Constance says, grinning at him.
Porthos' eyebrows climb up a little higher. "Oh." The single syllable is heavy with heat and promise, and they share a look over Aramis' head.
Aramis whines slightly, pushing back into Porthos' hand. Constance can feel his cock starting to swell against her thigh. "Porthos..." he murmurs, his bandaged fingers flexing against Constance's stomach.
"Didn't you say you'd already come twice today?" Porthos reminds him with a teasing smile, but the motion of his arm doesn't stop. "Greedy, I always say."
"And you're driving me mad," Aramis sighs, still not lifting his head from Constance's chest. His hips rock back and forth between her leg and Porthos' touch, his now-hard cock sliding against her with every motion. She reaches down and wraps a hand loosely around him, giving him something to thrust into, and when Aramis lets out a soft moan, Porthos leans over Aramis to give her a proper kiss.
She smiles against Porthos' lips as Aramis starts to pant between them. They work so well together, her and Porthos. He returns her smile when they break apart, flashing her a wink, and he speeds up the motion of his hand. She tightens her grip, and Aramis groans quietly, letting Porthos' motions push him into the circle of her fingers.
"I don't think I've ever felt you like this," Porthos says, his low voice amazed. "So loose--so relaxed. Just taking it."
And Porthos is right, Constance realizes. For once, Aramis isn't tense all over and straining for his orgasm. He's totally pliant between them, just letting them bring him closer and closer to release. Porthos and Constance watch him intently, cataloguing every motion, making sure he's not in pain. He's so relaxed, though, Constance is sure he's not. His eyes are closed, long lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, and his mouth curves into a gentle smile as Porthos bends to kiss his neck again.
"You close?" Porthos murmurs in his ear. Aramis nods, his body still calm between them. The ragged way he draws breath is the only way they can tell he's getting there.
"Going to let us make you come?" Constance asks softly, and Aramis sighs out another contented sound and nods. He looks like he's floating.
"Please," he whispers against her skin, his breath hot, and Constance moans softly. She tightens her hand, looking quickly at Porthos, and he nods, speeding up the drag and slide of his fingers.
Aramis exhales a shuddering breath and comes a moment later, spilling hot against the inside of her thighs. He's beautiful in the candlelight, his face smooth and untroubled by pain or worry, a soft, happy smile playing across his lips.
"Beautiful," Porthos says, then, a mirror of her thoughts, and Constance flashes him a smile.
"Sweet of you to say," Aramis murmurs, shifting so he can nuzzle at Porthos and Constance both. "Thank you." He kisses Porthos, then Constance, and he just looks so happy that Constance's heart sings.
"When you're all quite finished?" a low, amused voice says from the doorway. Constance looks up and sees Athos leaning against the frame, an unmistakably warm smile on his face. "D'Artagnan's nearly done with supper."
Aramis sighs happily. "Athos." He holds out his bandaged arm, curling his fingers to beckon as well as he can, and Athos pushes off from the doorway, crossing the room to them in three strides. He never, ever hesitates when any one of them calls him.
Athos sits on the edge of the bed and very gently takes Aramis' hand in his own, holding his broken arm like it's made of spun glass. Almost tenderly, Athos brushes a kiss across his knuckles. It's so sweet it makes Constance ache--Athos is always so careful with them. "Feeling well?" he asks, his blue eyes nearly glowing in the half-light.
Aramis smiles a sleepy, heavy-lidded smile, and traces the tips of his fingers across Athos' lips and cheeks. "Better now. Arm's fine."
"Your side?"
Aramis rolls his eyes, shaking off his sex haze in the face of his second-favorite pastime: bickering with Athos. "For God's sake, I've barely felt it all day. See?" He braces himself on his other arm and starts to sit up.
"No," Porthos says in exasperation, but he's too late. Aramis lets out a half-vocalized yelp of pain as the motion jars muscles he hasn't tried to use all day, blood flooding into stiff tissue and reawakening bruises. "Oh, and I was doing so well," he groans as Constance and Porthos have to physically help him lie back down, startling another loud, pained noise from him in the process.
"Do I need to come up there?" d'Artagnan yells up the stairs, and Constance stifles a giggle in the face of Aramis' disappointment.
"In a moment," Athos calls back, then looks at Aramis with a half-fond, half-annoyed expression on his face. "You are the worst patient, do you know that?"
Aramis looks up at Athos through his dark eyelashes, his face artlessly arranging itself into the most appealing of expressions. "Lie down and make me feel better?" he says, just a hint of pleading in his voice, and Athos' expression softens just a touch before he hitches his scowl back into place.
"We need to bring dinner up," he says, shifting his position on the bed so Constance can move. "And then, I shall be at your disposal. Within reason," he adds, catching the look on Aramis' face. "You're still injured."
"You're still a tease," Aramis says, wrinkling his nose at Athos, but there's no real irritation in his voice or his eyes. Then he makes a discontented noise as Constance starts to slide out of bed. "No," he pouts, reaching for her.
"Do you want me to leave d'Artagnan alone with all the food?" she asks, leaning over him to kiss his forehead. "Or do you want there to be something left for the rest of us?"
Aramis sighs. "Fair point. Go, be quick, come back to me."
"You are so spoiled," Porthos says, dropping a kiss to his shoulder before climbing off the bed as well.
"No," Aramis groans, reaching out with his uninjured arm for Porthos. "This isn't fair, I don't get to leave this bed and you do, don't leave me alone--"
"We will be right back," Constance sighs, pulling on the chemise she'd discarded earlier in the day. She doesn't bother with her corset--one of d'Artagnan's vests hangs on the back of the chair in the corner, and she shrugs it on and flips her hair out of the collar. It's clothing enough just to go downstairs.
"Athos," Aramis whines, putting a hand on Athos' knee to stop him getting up too. "Stay?"
Athos sighs in exasperation, but he's already shifting to where Porthos just was as the other two head to the door. "I'll be down soon," Athos says to them, then leans down to capture Aramis' lips in a kiss.
Constance stays long enough to watch Aramis' whole body go loose and easy again, splayed out under Athos' lean form. Then she and Porthos head downstairs to the kitchen, leaving the door open behind them (it's such a little change, but a marvelous one, from when her husband was still alive and she and d'Artagnan had to sneak everywhere). One of Aramis' soft moans echoes down the stairs after them, and Constance turns and starts to head back up the steps without even thinking. Porthos has to take her arm and physically tug her back downstairs.
"You two, I swear," Porthos laughs, draping his arm around her shoulders. "You're both insatiable. Haven't you have had each other all day?"
"I know,"Constance groans, half-covering her face with one hand as they walk down the hall. "You know, when I married, I thought lying together once a week was too much? Now, if I can't have one or more of you before we get out of bed, I feel like I've wasted the day."
Porthos bursts out laughing, filling the hall and kitchen with the sound of it, and d'Artagnan looks up with a smile as they come in. He's a mess, his hair all over the place and flour dusting one cheek from the loaf of bread he's slicing, but he's still the most handsome thing she's ever seen.
"Oh, that's a nice look on you," he says with a grin, eyeing her only-barely-dressed-and-really-not-even-decent state, and Constance rolls her eyes even as she steps into his arms for a kiss. He slants his mouth across hers, kissing her deep and slow, but she can feel him smiling even then. "This is mine, isn't it?" he asks when they break apart, tugging on the edges of the vest.
"'Course it is, none of the rest of us would wear something so hideous," Porthos says, ruffling d'Artagnan's hair as he passes behind him. D'Artagnan aims a kick at him, but Porthos sidesteps it easily.
"Have a good day with Aramis?" d'Artagnan asks then, pressing another kiss to her forehead as he pulls away to finish slicing their bread and cheese. Dinner looks to be a simple affair--bits of ham scrambled into eggs, bread and cheese, and apples--but they brought it home to her and made it themselves, and she knows it'll taste better than anything she's ever eaten. "By which I mean," d'Artagnan continues, "please tell me you didn't break Aramis any more than he already is."
"He did nothing but lie on his back all day," Constance says, grinning wickedly as she begins to divide up the eggs into bowls.
D'Artagnan considers it. "No. No, that doesn't mean anything; you definitely still could have broken him." She whaps him on the shoulder with her spoon handle, and he laughs, ducking away.
"He's still in one piece," Porthos chuckles. "In a few different shapes, but one piece." They move around each other easily in the kitchen, the three of them well-practiced by now (Aramis and Athos are generally useless in the kitchen, and thus, generally banished).
"Ooh, now that sounds interesting, details, please."
"We've corrupted you," Porthos laughs. "You never used to want all the sordid details."
D'Artagnan very purposefully presses up against Porthos' side as he reaches for the salt, glancing up with his bottom lip caught between his teeth and one of his eyebrows arched. "You've never seemed to mind my being corrupted before."
Constance giggles, leaning against the counter to watch. Porthos' eyes narrow, and he drops the bowl of apples he's holding to drag d'Artagnan against his front, his hands low on d'Artagnan's slender hips. "You," Porthos says, his fingers leaving creases in d'Artagnan's shirt, "are a menace."
D'Artagnan hums softly. "I learned from the best." He tilts his head back as he rolls his hips forward, grinning hotly, and that's a move he has to have learned from Aramis, but it looks so much filthier when he does it. Maybe it's because he's so very innocent and earnest everywhere but the bedroom.
Even Constance can still be a little shocked by how utterly shameless he is about wanting them--and he can talk the others into things even Aramis can't. Porthos and Aramis spent a very entertaining evening once relating to her how d'Artagnan managed to get Athos so wound up that he shoved d'Artagnan to his knees and fucked his mouth in the garrison armory. Athos has never even done that to Aramis, apparently.
But she's getting distracted. Right now, Porthos is looking like he's seriously considering fucking d'Artagnan on the kitchen table, and d'Artagnan's giving Porthos his best impression of Aramis' I'm all yours stare. Constance has completely forgotten about dinner.
Athos' boots on the stairs jar them all out of it, and d'Artagnan drops his head against Porthos' collarbone with a chuckle. Porthos sighs, running an affectionate hand through d'Artagnan's hair, then grins as Athos walks in. "Kiss Aramis into submission, then?" he asks.
Athos' own hair is a mess and there's a flush high on his cheeks. He flashes them a quick smile, heading to the sideboard for the wine, then reaches up to wipe a drop of something white from the corner of his mouth. "Something like that," he says, and not one of them misses how slightly hoarse he is.
"And we missed it?" d'Artagnan says, outraged.
"I assumed you would all be in any second," Athos says with immense dignity, turning to them. "Had I known you were down here making eyes at each other instead of bringing dinner up, I would have--"
Constance kisses him to shut him up. Athos makes a noise low in his throat as she licks along his tongue, tasting Aramis, and his hand comes to rest gently on the small of her back. He's smiling when she breaks away. "I don't believe I said good evening to you, Constance," he says, brushing his nose against hers.
"You did not," she says, affecting a haughty tone. "But I've forgiven you now." She winks and tweaks his beard before stepping back to the table. "And there's something I need to talk to you about. Something Aramis asked me for this afternoon."
"Oh?" Athos says, taking a sip of wine as he watches them fill bowls to bring upstairs. "Does it have anything to do with the way he was begging me to fuck him before I'd barely said hello?"
"Remind me how that's different from any other day?" d'Artagnan asks, grinning at him.
Athos flashes d'Artagnan a smile over the rim of his glass. Athos has a very particular smile for d'Artagnan--small and warm, with a hint of heat. "He was more than usually vehement about it today. I gather you've been teasing, Constance," he says to her then, including her in his smile.
"Not teasing," she says with a laugh. "He kept asking for more, and I gave it to him." She wants to add the thing they'd talked about then, but she doesn't know quite how to. She's still trying to figure out the vocabulary of these things they're doing together; it's all so new.
They all can tell, she thinks, that there's more she wants to say, and they wait patiently for her to find the words. "At first I was afraid it was too much," she says finally, deciding to just have out with it. "He seemed a little--well, shaky, when we were finished. But we talked about it, and--" She bites her lip, chewing on it thoughtfully, and chooses her words carefully. "He's always scared we're going to vanish into thin air. I wanted to give him a little more."
Porthos and Athos glance at each other, and she knows they're thinking the same thing she is. "He always wants more," Porthos says, his voice heavy, and there's a worried tension in the look he and Athos share. She wonders, then, if they know he wants it and they both want it, why they haven't ever done it before?
D'Artagnan's looking between them all, and she sees the moment when he realizes. A little blush streaks along his cheekbones, but when he glances at her, there's the same worry and doubt there that the other two have.
"He can take it," she assures them all. "I know he can take it."
"We couldn't," Athos says shortly, staring down into his wine glass. "Not if we hurt him."
And it's all very clear, then. To her, it's only ever been about what Aramis can take--if it'd be too much for him. She hadn't really thought about it being too much for them.
"Can't you trust him to know what he wants?" d'Artagnan asks quietly.
"We trust him," Porthos says. He's braced himself on the table, hands on the wood and his shoulders tight. "Not ourselves."
D'Artagnan takes a half-step closer to Porthos, looking at Athos, too. "But...we're here now," he says, and looks back at Constance for confirmation. She nods, and he smiles at her. "We'll help," he tells them, offering it up like it's the most natural thing in the world.
It's so like d'Artagnan, offering himself as the means to make everyone happy. He'll gladly put himself in the middle to ease the way, to give everyone what they want. He's never had to hide the way the rest of them have, to keep a part of himself secret and safe, so his first impulse is to reach out.
Constance has no idea what they'd do without him.
Athos and Porthos share an almost startled look. Athos' eyes are unguarded for once, just for a moment, in that second when he's looking to Porthos as if to say, could we? And Porthos' face is wide open, because Porthos never believes it can be that easy until it's right there in front of him.
"Once he's well again," Athos says, his voice very different than it was a moment ago. He seems steady, but Constance can see the wine in his glass rocking back and forth ever so slightly.
"Right," Porthos says. He's clearly smiling and just as clearly trying not to, smiling down at the table at something only he can see. He straightens, gives Athos his version of a serious face, and nods. "We'll talk about it when he's better."
Athos nods, a very small and controlled motion, and he sets his wine glass down. "D'Artagnan, come here."
D'Artagnan walks around the table, looking a little apprehensive, and in one smooth motion Athos grabs him around the waist, pins him to the wall, and kisses him to within an inch of his life. Constance can see just enough of d'Artagnan's face to see his look of surprise turn to delight, as his eyes fall shut and his flailing hands settle on the lapels of Athos' jacket.
Porthos laughs, long and loud, happier than Constance has heard him sound in weeks, and she ducks into the circle of his arm, wrapping an arm around his waist. She feels easy, settled again--they're going to do this for Aramis, they're going to figure it out together. Porthos holds her tightly and presses a kiss to her hair, the both of them smiling at Athos and d'Artagnan, who don't look like they're coming up for air any time soon. Of everyone, she thinks the change in Athos has been the most pronounced--once they'd managed to convince him that he was allowed to feel some small amount of happiness, he started chasing it down with his own particular brand of single-minded determination.
There's a very loud thud from upstairs, the exact sound that the chair next to the bed would make if someone in the bed had purposefully knocked it over. "In your own time," Aramis yells peevishly, and Porthos swears and scrambles for the stairs.
The rest of them bring the food up and soothe Aramis' ruffled feathers with supper and their presence. They all sit on the bed, Constance half in Athos' lap and d'Artagnan propping Aramis up as Porthos helps him eat with his left hand, and it's happy, it's safe, it's home.
It's the last time they're all together for two and a half weeks.