Porthos du Vallon (humanhurricane) wrote in the100, @ 2016-04-04 20:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log/thread, aramis, porthos |
WHO: Aramis & Porthos
WHEN: March 30th, 2016
WHERE: Medical or thereabouts
WHAT: Post-battle: Porthos is injured and collapses at Aramis’ feet. He wakes up stitched, heavily medicated, and more than a little starry-eyed about his nurse.
WARNING: None really. Even the wound talk isn't graphic.
Porthos had been conscious after the fighting died down. Full of dwindling battle fever, covered in blood and grime from his bandana down to his feet, and conscious. He’d even been able to form whole sentences when he tracked down Aramis. Well, at least one whole sentence. Something like, “might need a nurse” after which he collapsed in a heap and bled all over Aramis’ shoes. The wound looked like three claw marks, slicing from the outer edge of his right shoulder to the inner edge of his clavicle, but it was really from a strange pronged weapon used by one of the orcs. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it looked at first sight. It just bled like a son of a bitch, hence the passing out. At least, that was what Porthos remembered as he slowly squeaked open one eye and stared at the ceiling overhead. He was on a cot. That part was easy to figure out. The part he wasn’t sure about was why he felt like he was floating. He really should’ve been in terrible pain. “Not that I’m complainin’,” he mumbled drunkenly out loud. Squeaking open his second eye, Porthos reached for his wounded shoulder. His rough voice came out in a delirious, sing-song growl. “‘Miiiis. Am I dead? Hell, I hope not.” The drugged statement was responded in kind with a surprised chuckle and a hand gently bracing against Porthos’ shoulder to keep him from moving. “No, that’s the medication. Much more potent than wine, isn’t it?” The last few hours had been a flurry of action. Not the kind of action that Aramis was wholly used to - he normally fought, then healed. In this case, there was a lot more prep work and early-phase healing that had to be done. He’d stitched, bandaged and treated dozens so far, though since Porthos had collapsed against him, he hadn’t moved far. It really wasn’t as bad as it had looked, thankfully, and Aramis had been able to clean up the wound in relative peace (compared to how Porthos normally acted) though the first twenty minutes had been nerve-wracking, to say the least. A great deal of muttering about Porthos not being allowed to leave him all the while he spent cleaning, stitching and dressing wounds. Luckily, his friend remained stable, but Aramis had sent up more than his fair share of prayers during that touch-and-go time. Aramis flexed his fingers against Porthos’ muscles, gently kneading while he held his friend down. “Try not to move, you know what will happen if you pull my stitchings, all right? You’re not dying, so healing will have to wait until later.” Porthos almost immediately settled, sinking back into the cot with a dumb smile aimed up at Aramis. Whatever medication he was talking about was definitely a step up from wine. More like ten steps really. Porthos couldn’t even feel the stitches as he covered Aramis’ hand with his own. He felt warm and grateful, and stared up at his dearest friend with all the affection he felt, as opposed to how he could usually temper it to something more appropriate. Somewhere deep below the drugs’ effects, panic bloomed. There was a damn good chance he was going to say something stupid, revealing, or just plain dirty in the next few minutes. Good thing the fluff that was his brain currently didn’t care. “Alright, Aramis. I’ll stay right...here,” Porthos smiled and patted Aramis’ hand fondly. “Glad I’m not dead. Somebody’s gotta watch your back.” He giggled, sleepy gaze lighting up with mischief. “And your front.” Feeling much more kind to himself and his friend now that Porthos was out of trouble - the only thing more nerve wracking than not being at his back in combat was knowing neither Athos or d’Artagnan were, either - Aramis let himself grin easily. This was a lot like drunk Porthos, of who he was very fond, especially since it gave him plenty of memories to think back to. Those easy grins always made him just as weak at the knees as the grumbling faces Porthos made. “And I certainly can’t blame you,” Aramis went about the area, cleaning up after himself now that they were all in less of a hurry. “It’s a very nice back. And front.” Even grinning, he was back to business as he glanced down at the now-bandaged wound. “Do you remember what happened? It looks like something clawed you.” “It is,” Porthos grunted in agreement, matter-of-fact. Everyone knew Aramis was beautiful. That wasn’t something he had any reason to deny even when he was sober. Which he very much was not. His eyes drifted shut for a moment, a frown of thought pinching his features, and he squeezed Aramis’ hand in concern now. It shouldn’t take so long to piece together what had led to him stumbling towards medical and dropping at Aramis’ feet. “I...no, no. It wasn’t--Well, it was sort of a beast...person with these teeth, and…,” Porthos waved his free hand around his face and then shook his head. “They called ‘em somethin’. Corks? Forks?” Huffing a tired laugh, Porthos dropped his hand over his face and talked a little slower. “Point is, not claws. It was a weapon of some sort. Like an axe with more than one blade. Thought for sure it was gonna--damn near did take my head off.” “Beast person with teeth. Very descriptive.” Aramis teased because he cared, honestly. He had squeezed Porthos’ hand in return, not rushing him or trying to get the explanation over with. He looked down at his friend with a stare full of affection, love, concern. All of them were fairly accurate as far as Porthos was concerned, especially when Porthos was injured. “Orcs, trolls, minotaurs. I’ve heard a dozen stories much the same over the last hour.” He gestured to the neat pile of Porthos’ weapons and armor, that he’d removed soon after his friend had stumbled into his arms. “But no matter. You’re alive, I am now the owner of your sword and your armor is going to need repairing, but nothing we can’t handle.” “Orcs, that was it. Though I guess it coulda been a troll. Not like I’d know the difference,” Porthos squinted, not at all fazed by Aramis given him shit like he always did. The fuzzy painlessness helped, of course. That and Aramis being unhurt almost made up for the way he’d felt alone on the battlefield for the first time in years. Even when he’d gone off and done missions by himself back at home, Porthos had never felt alone. A Musketeer was never really alone, after all. But here… “Missed you out there…,” he murmured, trying to sit up. A sharp sting of pain made it through the haze, though, so he settled for slumping crookedly against the wall beside his cot. “Which is why I’m gonna ignore how you just said you’re now the owner of my sword,” Porthos added quickly, like it would somehow put a dent in the sentiment. The attempt was a waste, really. Since he immediately followed it with a sweet, dopey smile. “Thanks for patchin’ me up, Aramis.” “Stop moving.” Aramis replied harshly, hissing the warning through his teeth as he pressed a hand against Porthos good shoulder once again, nudging him back down. “If you try to get up again, it will become my sword.” Keeping Porthos still was always a full time job, and Aramis had his own pang of guilt there, at not being at Porthos’ back when the fighting was happening. At least back home he had the reassurance that Athos would be, when Aramis was taking the high ground or on another mission. Here, he didn’t have eyes everywhere. “You’re welcome. Next time, I’ll be out there with you, can’t let you have all of the fun. Besides,” Aramis grinned down at him and then turned his head to nod toward the rifle sitting against one of the nearby walls. “I took out an orc headed your way early on in the fight. Before people started getting injured. You can thank me later.” Aramis snapping orders at him always made Porthos’ blood heat up. And it didn't happen nearly enough for his liking, all told. Especially not lately, when Aramis was too busy beating himself up over his mistakes to give Porthos shit for his. God knows, Porthos would rather his friend were frustrated with him than torturing himself. His smile sharpened at the edges, just a little wicked, and he dragged his teeth across his bottom lip before saying anything. “I'm thankin’ you now, Aramis. But, take it easy on your patient, yeah? Try to remember you like me enough to watch my back in the first place.” Porthos reached up, squeezed Aramis’ shoulder, and stretched to look around him. “But speakin’ of people gettin’ hurt. How bad we talkin’? They didn't get inside, yeah? The kids are alright?” Aramis leaned down to place a chaste kiss on Porthos sweaty forehead. He smoothed back his friends’ curly hair and stared down at him with a fond smile. There was nothing wholly unusual about the move, intimate yes, but Aramis had always been rather hands-on as a friend. “I like you well enough to watch my front and my back. You’ll have to take it easy for a few days, and then one of the Hawke’s should be able to speed up your recovery, once they’ve rested.” He lingered a second, taking one more glance over the bandages and finally leaning back to return to cleaning up around the area. “No one got close, the children are all fine. No casualties on our side, though a fair few injuries, but the life threatening ones seem to be out of the woods for now. I’ve been working on the minor repairs.” It wasn't out of the ordinary for Aramis to do what he did, no, but Porthos still closed his eyes and swallowed dryly. He wasn't in any rush to open his eyes back up either. But it wouldn't hurt anyone if he just laid there for a moment and savored the feeling of Aramis fussing over him. Nearly anyone else and he'd call it pity, and he’d hate feeling weak and vulnerable. Aramis would never be just anyone else, though. “Good,” he finally murmured, smiling crookedly. “Good. Coulda been a lot worse. Sorry to add to your list of…minor repairs.” Porthos opened his eyes to watch Aramis clean. While he resisted the urge to sit up again, he didn't resist snagging Aramis by a pocket and pulling him back over to the cot. “You're not gonna leave me here by myself, right? You know I'll make a run for it.” “You’re not any more sorry than I am. Better me than a stranger, yes? I know practically everything about you, Porthos.” Aramis patted him once more before moving around the temporary bed, practically whistling to himself. One of the actual nurses had set aside another dose of the pain medication for Porthos when he woke, to help him sleep again, and Aramis glanced to it. And then around the room. Things were mostly quiet now, but there was always still work to be done. “Worry not, my friend.” Aramis lifted up the syringe filled with medication and tapped it, before putting the needle into his IV output. “In a few minutes, you won’t even realize I’m here or there.” Porthos let his hand drop away with a guilty sigh. Aramis didn’t know everything about him. If he did, he probably wouldn’t treat Porthos the same. They’d at least be having a different conversation. Thank God, they weren’t, though. Porthos was hardly in the right condition to watch Aramis move around the cot, let alone have any real talk about his stupid feelings. He had to suppose the medicine Aramis was pumping into the tube thing was a bit like getting punched in the face for his own good, right? He didn’t like it, and it made him frown, but Aramis had already stitched him up. The least Porthos could do was get out of his hair without any more whining. Well, without too much more whining. “Rubbish,” Porthos huffed, flinging an arm over his face as the world started to go blurry at the edges. “Always notice when you’re not around, Aramis. But you…,” Porthos waved his other hand in Aramis’ general direction. “...you go do what you do best.” The smile Aramis gave in return was heart-melting, and he was lucky that his heart jumping into his throat wasn’t visible to any prying eyes with that kind of statement. Aramis reached down and gave Porthos hand one last squeeze before nodding in acknowledgement, even as Porthos was on his way to dream-land with the dose of medication. “And you, my friend. I’ll be here when you wake up.” |