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He supports Aramis with an arm slung low around his waist, wary of the ribs he knows are still tightly bound. Aramis no longer seems to be struggling to catch his breath, at least; perhaps his physician will allow them to be removed before too long. Treville resolves to ask him when he visits tomorrow.
He has not yet missed any of the physician’s visits with Aramis. Not that Aramis has outwardly asked for his presence, but nor has he attempted to turn him away, and Treville knows Aramis well enough to know precisely what to make of that. If Aramis takes even some small measure of comfort from his company, Treville is glad to provide it. He is loathe to leave him to recover alone. Perhaps a captain would not normally be so involved in the healing of his men, but these are special circumstances.
How honourable that sentiment must sound, to all but Treville. ‘Special circumstances;’ the words twist in his mind, sneered in a voice not unlike that of Cardinal Richelieu. ‘Special’ does not do the circumstances justice. They are terrible circumstances. Nightmarish.
He will gladly watch over Aramis if it comforts him, but Treville cannot tell himself he does so purely for that reason. He knows all too well that he seeks his own peace of mind. Watching Aramis heal, slowly but surely, is reassuring. But it does a little to assuage the guilt that gnaws endlessly at him.
Treville attempts to cast off these thoughts as they climb the stairs to his office. Aramis is still limping, but to his surprise, he does not offer even token protests against his help; if anything, he sags into Treville's hold. “Not that I begrudge aiding you,” Treville says lightly, as they enter his office, “but why have you struggled here without help? I thought the physician gave you a crutch? One that might work a damn sight better than your pride,” he adds dryly.
“He did,” Aramis says, his voice tight.
“And?” Treville prompts.
“It was very kind of him, I'm sure. Unfortunately,” Aramis says, with just a hint of mischief beneath his weariness, “it was mistaken for firewood.”
“I see,” Treville says, trying to hide his smile. Aramis may have done himself no favours in resolving to be a terrible patient, but it is a relief to hear him sound closer to himself. “Mistakenly, you say?”
He busies himself helping Aramis out of his thick leather coat. It is somehow familiar, but he would swear it is not a garment he has seen Aramis wear before; Treville is hardly a man of fashion, but he has an old soldier’s eye for detail all the same. He has noticed that Aramis’ usual preference is for clothing that drapes elegantly over him, but this coat hangs off him not by design, but by virtue of being slightly too large. The effect is not that of a cocksure young men set on showing himself off to the world, but something closer to a boy dressing up in his older brother’s clothing, right down to the sleeves hanging over his fingers.
“A tragic accident,” Aramis agrees, interrupting his thoughts.
“I’m certain nothing could have been done to prevent it,” Treville says, and hangs up the jacket. It is only when it is on the peg that he realises why it struck him as familiar; it had belonged to Marsac.
Silence falls for a moment as his hands clench instinctively in the leather.
He can picture the man it belonged to so clearly in his mind's eye, smiling laconically, invariably at Aramis. It had been rare to see one without the other, even mere weeks after their meeting. It was a relationship that seemed to bring out the best in both; what could have been an intense rivalry instead became two men determined to please the other. Treville had no qualms placing Aramis under Marsac’s tutelage, knowing that he was a damn fine musketeer, and would train him well. They were an impressive team, better together than they were apart.
He turns, and takes in Aramis as he is now; left alone, his eyes darting restlessly between the shadows in the office as he holds himself upright on shaking limbs. He seems somehow smaller without Marsac by his side. He seems lost.
Twin surges of anger and guilt flare in his gut; anger that Marsac could leave Aramis to die slowly amid the bodies of his brothers, and guilt that the soldier had ever been in the position to do so.
“It's rather dark in here, don't you think?” Treville says, forcing his tone to remain light despite the churning of his thoughts. “I feel as if I can barely see.”
“Mm,” Aramis murmurs, half-listening at most. His eyes track back and forth between the shadows as he wraps his arms around himself, apparently unaware of their shaking. The attack came after sundown, Treville knows. Aramis has said nothing about the darkness since he returned, but he has a twitchy way of glancing into shadows that speaks volumes.
Treville forces a smile onto his face. “I'll light a few candles,” he says, and is pleased when Aramis turns to give him a relieved nod.
He settles somewhat when the shadows recede in the flickering light of every candle Treville has to hand. “Thank you,” Aramis says quietly, hands clasped tightly together as he watches Treville bustle around his office. “Captain, may we talk?”
“Certainly, in a moment,” Treville says. He knows why Aramis is here, and he will delay that conversation for as long as he is able. He does not have to reach far for a way to do so. “First, tell me, when was the last time you ate?”
Aramis' sharp look at being delayed immediately changes to something far more guilty. It is surprisingly endearing; Treville feels as if he is looking at a child, suddenly caught out on bad behaviour he hoped would not be discovered. It vanishes after a moment, covered by a carefully blank look. “Why do you ask?” Aramis says, in lieu of an actual answer, and Treville folds his arms.
“Tell me,” he says expectantly, allowing a touch of warning to shade his tone; Aramis has never approved of being handled with kid gloves.
He gives Treville a wary glance, before allowing his eyes to drop to the floor. “Last night,” he says abruptly.
Treville sighs, and stifles the urge to bury his face in his hands. Instead he approaches, standing in front of Aramis with his arms crossed, keeping his gaze hard. “Do you really think that's good enough?” he asks pointedly, doing his best to summon up his usual commanding bark, as if he were putting a troublesome recruit in his place. He cannot help but think that Aramis, a soldier for most of his adult life, will respond best to this.
It seems he is right; Aramis is startled into meeting his eyes. Treville arches an eyebrow pointedly, and Aramis squares his shoulders. “No, sir,” he says.
“Do you think you're doing their memory justice by letting yourself waste away?” Treville asks, and for a moment, as Aramis' eyes widen in astonishment, he wishes he could stuff the words back into his clumsy mouth.
He is about to apologise, when Aramis' lips settle into a hard line and he issues a sharp shake of his head. “No, sir.”
“That's what I thought,” Treville says, relief coursing through him. “Then you are willing to eat?”
“Yes, sir,” Aramis agrees after a moment. Treville reaches out to clasp him on the shoulder, allowing his relief to show, and Aramis offers him a weak smile.
“I'll get something for you. Sit down,” he adds, and he heads for the door.
Porthos is the only person around, still sweeping the courtyard when he emerges onto the balcony. He looks up immediately when Treville calls his name. “Porthos! Have you seen Serge?”
“He's in the kitchens,” Porthos supplies.
“Good. Go to him, please. Ask him to prepare something for supper. Something hearty,” he says. When Porthos gives him a wary look, Treville gives him a wry smile. “And if he complains about being disturbed this late, tell him it's for Aramis. He'll soon change his tune.”
“Yes, sir,” Porthos says, looking much more comfortable with the reassurances. Treville turns away, but Porthos carries on. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“That musketeer. Aramis. Is he...” He trails off for a second, and Treville is readying himself to snap that he will not indulge in idle gossip about Savoy, when Porthos asks, “Is he going to be all right?”
He allows himself a small smile. Porthos, he suspects, is hiding an enormous heart behind all that muscle. “I hope so,” he murmurs, then straightens up and adds firmly, “I have made it my business to ensure as much.”
If the promise rings hollow to himself, Porthos seems not to notice. He offers a brief, approving smile, and strides off towards the kitchens.
Treville halts before he returns to his office, weighed down by his thoughts. The least he owes Aramis is to help him through this, and he will do so in whichever way he can, but what of the twenty other men who fell at Savoy? What does he owe them? Their lives are a debt he will never be able to repay, and they never sit more heavily on him than when he sees Aramis.
It is as if Aramis is a ghost himself. Or perhaps worse; a cursed creature, half-dead and possessed by the wraiths of his fallen brothers, still-living flesh chilled by their ghostly touch.
Perhaps it would be easier if he could hate Aramis for returning, for being a constant reminder of Treville's betrayal, but he cannot.
The first report he had received from Savoy had said none had survived; when another followed, telling him that no, one man yet lived, Treville had locked himself in his office to hide the shine of his relieved tears. He had not cried since the death of his father, some thirty years before, but one man returning to him from that bloodbath had moved him more than he could say.
He could never hate Aramis for surviving. It is much easier to hate himself.
He knows he had no choice, of course. He has reminded himself of it again and again, whispered the words to himself in the dead of the night when guilt bars the door against rest. He knows all too well that his orders were the only option to protect France, but such patriotism does nothing to cool the hot press of shame in his gut.
It burns more fiercely whenever he sees Aramis, but never more so than when he had finally returned to the garrison and his first words were, "I'm sorry."
Treville had wasted no time in pulling Aramis against him and holding him tightly, doing his best to make him feel safe. Aramis had collapsed in his arms and buried his face against Treville's shoulder, his breath hitching as he wept helplessly. There was no judgement to be seen in the eyes of the few remaining musketeers left watching them; indeed, each of them had pressed close to Aramis, trying to soothe him with murmured reassurance and careful touches. He always had been tactile.
Cornet had told him, later, as he sat in Treville's office and wearily gave his report, that the apology was the first thing Aramis had said since they left that cursed forest behind. “He said a little more, before we left,” he told Treville, anger and exhaustion battling in his voice. “Always the same. He kept asking for Marsac. We found him holding onto the bastard’s pauldron. All we could get out of him was that he was keeping it safe for when he came back. We took the bloody thing off him in the end, and threw it on the fire.”
Aramis is yet to mention Marsac to Treville. He finds himself relieved; he knows they were close - knows how close - and is not sure what he would say about him. A fine musketeer. A deserter. An evil man. A broken man.
Perhaps that conversation will come, in time. But tonight, Aramis wishes to speak of other matters.
Treville knows precisely what he is thinking. Aramis has not voiced his thoughts, but they have been visible on his face all too often; there is a distance in his gaze whenever he thinks himself unobserved. He means to leave.
Treville has no intention of willingly allowing him to drift away from the regiment, to become another spirit to haunt the shadows of Paris until he is returned to the Lord by the twist of a knife, whether in the hands of another or himself. But it is not as simple as refusing to release him from his commission. Treville can forbid Aramis from leaving all he wishes; if the stubborn fool refuses to listen to him, he cannot stop him from slipping away as soon as his back is turned.
No, Aramis must be persuaded.
Treville sighs, and lets himself back into his office.
Despite his invitation to sit, Aramis remains standing, staring at the floor as if he is seeing another place, another time. His legs tremble - he is not yet supposed to be out of bed, after all - so Treville reaches out to him.
“I told you to sit, Aramis. Here, let me help you,” he says. He takes Aramis by the elbow and promptly drops his hold when the other man startles badly, cringing away from him. Treville holds his hands up as Aramis steps back, wide-eyed and breathing hard. “It's just me,” he says softly, his own heart hammering. He has seen Aramis face down everything from thrown axes to cannon fire without flinching; now he is left panting at an unexpected touch. “It's just me, Aramis, all is well.”
He keeps his distance as Aramis tries to settle himself, his fingers curling into fists so tightly that they turn white. His head hangs as he squeezes his eyes closed, his breathing shaky and rapid. “My apologies,” he says eventually, his voice thin and wavering.
“You don't owe me any apologies, Aramis. I'm to blame,” Treville says wretchedly, feeling the truth of this strike home all too deeply. He approaches carefully, making sure his steps are heard. “Please, Aramis. Let me help you sit down?”
“If you insist,” Aramis says tightly, as though his legs aren't visibly trembling. He allows Treville to guide him into a chair, his eyes open but remaining fixed on the floor as he shuffles. He puts his head in his hands when he is seated, arms resting on his legs, and Treville gives in to the temptation to rub his back.
“Deep breaths,” he murmurs. “Nice and calm. You're safe here, Aramis. You're home.”
Aramis' breath hitches at that, and he snorts, but says nothing. Treville feels his resolve hardening. This is his home, and he will do his best to show Aramis as much, in any way he can.
His breathing slows after a few minutes. “Thank you, Captain,” Aramis murmurs into his hands. “You have my apologies.”
“You have nothing to apologise for,” Treville says again, and moves to sit behind his desk. “You're not yourself, that's all.”
With this, Aramis raises his head to give Treville a dark stare. “And what if I am myself?” he asks, his voice low. “What if this is who I am now?”
“Nonsense,” Treville says sharply, for he must believe that, he must. “You are just wounded, Aramis, that’s all it is. All wounds heal.”
“Not those that go deep enough,” Aramis retorts immediately. “Those wounds kill.”
“You are neither dead nor dying, and I will not treat you as if you are!” Treville snaps, and sighs at the weary look Aramis gives him. He is already tired of dancing around the subject. Let courtiers play their word games; he must speak his mind. “What is it you wish to say?”
Aramis looks away. “You already know.”
“And you already know my answer,” Treville says with an arch of his eyebrow. “Yet you struggled all the way here anyway, so you may as well say it.” Aramis hesitates, and Treville feels his heart leap. “Have you even said the words aloud?” he asks, keeping his tone light.
Aramis shakes his head. “I am yet to start talking to myself.”
“Then why not say it now?” Treville urges. “See how it sounds.”
Aramis gives him a suspicious look, but sets his jaw after a moment. “If you insist. Captain Treville, I wish - I wish to resign my commission.”
Silence falls around them as Treville watches Aramis closely. Aramis looks away first, his gaze dropping to the floor.
“It felt wrong, didn't it?” Treville says, as lightly as he can manage.
“Everything feels wrong, now,” Aramis counters, so quietly that Treville does not know whether he meant to be heard.
“It is temporary,” Treville assures him. “It will pass.”
“You don't know that,” Aramis says, his voice thick with frustration.
Treville plasters on a smile. “No, perhaps not. But I have faith. You are a strong man, Aramis. Whatever you are feeling will fade.”
“You do not know what I am feeling! You have no idea! You weren't there!” Aramis shouts, his temper blowing from nowhere.
Treville jumps, startled, realising that this is the first time he has heard Aramis speak in anger. He draws back and meets eyes which are icy in their fury, lacking any of the usual lightness. Treville drops his gaze immediately, shame coursing through him. “I should have been,” he says after a long moment.
Aramis hesitates, confusion flickering through his anger. “What? What do you mean?”
Treville allows himself to sag in his chair, suddenly too weary to hold himself up. He sets his elbows on his desk and rests his head in his hands as guilt floods through him yet again. “I should have been there with you. I know, Aramis. I should have been there too.”
“And what would that have accomplished?” Aramis snaps in return. “As formidable a soldier as you are, sir, one man could not have changed the course of that attack.”
“I could have tried. Perhaps I could have helped. Or I could have died alongside my men, like I should have,” Treville says, his voice low. He runs a hand over his tired face and when he looks back at Aramis, he finds him blinking, openly astonished.
“Whatever do you mean? You cannot mean to... to join them!” Aramis says, struggling to force the words out.
“Do you know how often I have stopped myself asking you that very question of late?” Treville snaps, and sighs when Aramis cringes back, dropping his gaze to his lap. Treville wonders what he would see in his eyes if he were to raise them: horror? Guilt? Resignation?
He rises from his desk to move closer, fingers clenching on Aramis’ shoulder. Aramis curls further into himself, drawing away as if helpless to stop himself.
“Aramis... Do you really think you are the only one of us struggling with guilt?” Treville asks, as gently as he knows how. His conscience screams at him as Aramis lets out a wounded noise, but he ploughs on regardless. “What I feel - what all of us are feeling, every one of us - it cannot compare with what you went through, but each of us have thought we should have been there in your place. In any of their places. If we could take that burden for you... Aramis, there is not a man among the musketeers who would not have taken your place.”
Aramis swallows, his throat working hard. “You do not have to pacify me,” he says, voice hitching. “I don't want your pity.”
“I would not dream of giving it to you,” Treville says. “I mean that. I assure you. Is that what is going through your head?”
“I assumed...” Aramis pauses, and aims a hesitant glance up at him before he looks away, staring sightlessly at the papers on Treville’s desk. “I assumed you must resent me. All of you.”
“Resent you?” he echoes, bewildered. Aramis nods, the motion jerky and stiff. “Why would you think that? What reason would we have to resent you?”
“For living,” Aramis says in little more than a whisper. “For living, when they... they all....”
Treville is left speechless. He stares at Aramis as he struggles to express how ridiculous the idea is, how utterly incorrect, but finds himself lost for words.
Aramis glances at him through his lashes after a moment, and sighs into the silence. He shrugs Treville’s hand from his shoulder. “I should go,” he manages, and the words spur Treville into ordering his thoughts.
“Where? Where will you go?” he asks immediately, his voice gentle.
“Back to my lodgings,” Aramis says, but Treville shakes his head.
“I don't mean tonight. If you are so intent upon resigning, then tell me, where will you go? What will you do if not soldiering?” he asks, leaning against the edge of his desk with his arms crossed.
Aramis looks away immediately, the words 'I don’t know' hanging pointedly between them. Treville allows the silence to stretch out until Aramis cracks. “There is always work for mercenaries,” he snaps irritably.
Treville arches an eyebrow. “You would go from doing the business of the King himself to taking orders from whoever has the coin to afford you?” he says, his tone pointed. “Regardless of what those orders may be?”
“Or I could go back to the Church,” Aramis says, stubbornly setting his jaw. “I could enter a seminary again.”
“Again?” Treville asks.
Aramis bristles. “I was not always a soldier, you know. When I was a child I thought my calling was to be a priest. Perhaps I was right.”
“Can it truly be a calling if you have already abandoned it once in your life?” Treville asks, his voice sharper than he intends. He expects anger; instead, Aramis sags in the chair, his head dropping again.
“I have also wondered as much,” he says weakly, sounding ever more drained. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps there is simply nowhere left for me.”
“That is not what I mean,” Treville says hurriedly. “Aramis, you cannot mean to - ”
A knock at the door interrupts them, and it swings open before Treville can protest. He looks over to see Serge in the doorway, holding a tray. “Somebody asked for some supper?” he says into the clanging silence, and Treville nods, supremely glad of the interruption.
“Yes. Thank you, Serge. It's very kind of you.”
“It's no bother. Nothing's a bother where this lad is concerned,” Serge declares as he crosses the room to set the tray on Treville's desk. Aramis pays it no heed; Serge's words have surprised him into looking up at him, blinking in open astonishment as Serge gives him an enormous smile. “When the new boy told me some musketeer called Aramis needed some supper I could hardly believe it. Are you sure, I asked him, 'cause I was told we'd not be seeing Aramis again for weeks yet.”
“He is supposed to be laid up in bed, recovering,” Treville says, when Aramis merely gives Serge an uncertain look.
Serge chuckles. “But here you are, just as large as life and back where you belong. What a sight for sore eyes you are.”
“Good evening,” Aramis says after a moment, visibly struggling to speak. Serge scoffs and holds a hand out to him; Aramis takes it after a pause, and allows Serge to heave him upright. Treville bites back a warning; Aramis' legs may be weak and shaky, but he will not thank Treville for coddling him. And if he has managed to walk as far as the garrison, Treville suspects his legs will support him at least a moment or two longer.
“Good evening?” Serge bursts. “Good evening, he says! As if I haven’t spent the best part of a month worrying about him! Good evening yourself,” he laughs, and sets his hands at Aramis' shoulders, eyes shining as he looks him over. “Look at you, lad. You look just as well as you ever did.”
“I believe my physician would disagree with you,” Aramis hedges, glancing between Treville and Serge as he raises a hand toward the deep wound at his forehead. Serge rolls his eyes, scoffing again.
“Physicians, pfft. Sheltered lords, the lot of them! What do physicians know about anything? So maybe you got a few cuts and bruises,” he says dismissively, in what Treville thinks may count as the greatest understatement he's ever heard. “Just you wait and see. It's nothing that time won't heal, and all you'll have to show for it is a few scars that'll soon fade.” He squeezes Aramis' shoulders as gently as if he were holding a newborn babe, and Treville reads much from the gesture; all the relief and hope that Serge tries to cover with his cheerful words. He allows a smile to crook the corner of his mouth as Aramis uncertainly meets Serge’s gaze, and is pleased when Aramis raises a hand to Serge’s shoulder in return.
“I'm not sure I will suit all these scars,” Aramis says, with an attempt at his familiar cocksure smirk. Serge scoffs.
“Nonsense! Scars add character to a soldier, boy, did nobody ever tell you that?” he asks, eyes sparkling. “Character that face of yours is sorely in need of. You'll soon see I'm right. You'll learn when you're older.”
“Will I indeed, old man?” Aramis says, and Treville’s heart lightens at the sight of his small, genuine smile. Aramis may have years of soldiering under his belt, but the day he had walked into the garrison to join up, Serge had taken one look at him and declared that recruits were getting younger by the minute. No amount of protesting could convince Serge he was anything more than a boy fresh from clinging to his mother's skirts, so Aramis had taken to mocking Serge's apparent decrepitude in response. “Some old sage will teach me, no doubt. I only hope he does so before he loses all of his teeth, else I doubt I'll understand his wise words.”
“Eh? What's that, lad? I can't hear you. Either I'm going deaf in my old age, or your voice is too squeaky for me to hear. Tell me again when your balls have dropped,” Serge says, and startles a laugh from Aramis. It is perhaps the most welcome sound Treville has ever heard. Serge grins and takes hold of Aramis by the chin, gently turning his head left and right as he splutters. “Anyway, I've always thought your pretty face needed a bit of something or other to improve it. Maybe with a few scars some beauty will finally notice you, hmm?”
“Once they've finished flocking to you, perhaps,” Aramis chuckles, and for a moment, listening to them bicker, Treville feels as if the last few weeks had not happened.
“That sounds about right to me. I'll be sure to send a few your way. God knows you could use the help. But I'm keeping you from your supper,” Serge says, waving a hand at the tray.
“It's quite all right. I'm not hungry,” Aramis begins, only for Serge to gesture impatiently at the chair.
“Now that's nonsense, as sure as I've ever heard it. I bet you've been barely eating, am I right?” Serge gives him a knowing look that has Aramis floundering. Treville merely arches an eyebrow when Aramis catches his eye, refusing to offer him a way out.
“I have hardly had an appetite,” Aramis eventually protests. “Let alone much of an opportunity to work one up.”
“Aye, maybe that has been the case until now. I'm sure you don't know of any way to build up an appetite while you’re laying in bed,” Serge says innocently, and Treville resolutely does not allow his amusement to show. Aramis' eyes crinkle at the corners and he cannot hide his smile. Serge carries on, undeterred. “But now you're up, and if you're well enough to make your way here, you're well enough to start treating yourself properly, I reckon. Now sit down and eat up, before I feed you myself.”
“Well, I believe that's me told,” Aramis says after a short moment.
“And about damn time, too," Serge says with an air of satisfaction as Aramis achily settles back into his chair.
Treville merely wishes his men would follow his orders even half the time they are willing to follow Serge's.
Serge settles the tray across Aramis' legs and removes the cloth to reveal a steaming bowl of stew and a bread roll. “There you go. Do the best you can with it, you hear?”
“I'll try,” Aramis murmurs, and gives Serge a hesitant smile. “I would hate to disappoint you.”
“Don't be so daft! You've never done that,” Serge says simply. He gives Aramis' shoulder a squeeze. “Will you be sleeping here tonight?”
“I hadn't thought to,” Aramis says uncertainly. “I didn't think I...”
“You will always be welcome here, Aramis,” Treville says, as gently as he knows how.
Serge nods immediately. “Of course you are! It’s your home, and it's much too late for you to be leaving now. I'll air your room out a bit,” Serge says, and heads for the door, matter decided. “Shall I tell the lads you're here?”
“Perhaps not,” Treville says as Aramis hesitates. He looks exhausted, and as sociable as he usually is, Treville thinks the last thing he needs is to be surrounded. “Maybe tomorrow. You could eat breakfast with them,” he encourages.
“Perhaps... If you think they would welcome me?” Aramis murmurs, and the hint of doubt in his voice claws at Treville.
“You have no idea how much you've been missed,” Serge says with a fond smile. “They'll be bloody thrilled to see you. It don't seem right here, nowadays,” he adds unexpectedly, his voice low as he takes Aramis in. “And it won't for a long time, I'll bet. But having you back here would do a hell of a lot to help with that. You belong here with us. Don’t you worry about your welcome. We all want you to come home.”
“Your brothers miss you,” Treville adds gently. “They talk of you often. You would hardly believe how often I am asked about you.”
“You're all they think about,” Serge adds. “You'll see. There'll be tears of joy in everyone's porridge tomorrow. Is that all, Captain?” he asks, and Treville nods.
“Yes, thank you, Serge,” he murmurs, and is sure he has never been more grateful to him. He rises to see him to the door, and gives his shoulder a tight squeeze.
“Then I'll air his room out and get my head down for a bit. I'll see you tomorrow,” Serge says pointedly to Aramis, and leaves.
Silence falls for a moment, as Aramis stares into his stew. He seems to be mulling something over. Treville leans against his desk opposite him, arms crossed as he waits him out. “Do they really ask about me?” he asks after a while, and Treville huffs a laugh.
“Often," he says simply. "Every time they see me. I come back from visiting you to find a crowd outside my office. They'd be visiting you every five minutes themselves if your physician hadn't demanded absolute rest for you. I suspect I will not be able to stop them, once they find out you're well enough to leave your bed.”
“I don't know if I can face them,” Aramis says. His voice is low. It sounds like a confession. “Not after I betrayed everyone.”
“Listen to me, Aramis, please,” Treville says roughly, around the lump in his throat. “You have not betrayed anyone. Not a soul. There is no burden of guilt upon your shoulders save that which you are giving yourself.”
“It doesn't feel that way,” Aramis protests weakly.
“I believe you. But I assure you, they will welcome you back with open arms,” Treville says. He speaks from his heart, hoping Aramis will see the truth in his words. “You have been sorely missed, Aramis. You are their brother, and they would have you back where you belong.”
“As would you?” Aramis asks, raising his eyes to meet Treville's.
Treville gives him a smile. “As would I,” he echoes. “I want you back with us. I want you here, with your family.”
The moment stretches out between them, before Aramis lets out a shaky sigh.
“Then I shall stay,” he says softly. He smiles at Treville's sigh of relief, before producing a faint smirk. It is but a shadow of the familiar cocky expression, but in time, Treville tells himself, that will change. He is sure of it. “Of course, I haven't been able to train for a while. I may be rusty. Perhaps we will find I am merely the best shot in Paris, instead of France.”
“I believe we can take a risk on that,” Treville says. “Now eat. Serge will have my head if he finds out I distracted you from his meal.”
“Yes, sir,” Aramis says, and Treville had never been happier to hear the words. He clasps Aramis by the shoulder, tightly, before he settles behind his desk.
It may not be much of a victory, having just one man out of twenty-two return to him. But at that moment, with Aramis alive and healing and back where he belongs, Treville feels as if he has won the hardest battle of his life.