somepoorsoul | (no subject)

For two weeks, Athos has been chasing a ghost.

He has caught glimpses, of course, and more than glimpses. This creature that wears his brother’s face appears in the dark of night to taunt him and remind him of the horrors his failings have set loose upon the world. Each night, despite himself, he goes searching - for more abuse, and more pain, and another desperate glimpse of Thomas’ face, even twisted in agony.

You are the monster, Thomas’ cold eyes, as blue as Athos’ own, seem to say every time they do find each other on this hellish Darrow’s ashy, abandoned streets. You are the reason I stand before you thus, a creature of blood and hate. You should have protected me, and instead you brought a deadly Jezebel into our house, and abandoned your family, and brought pain to every person you have known since.

Even when Aramis and Porthos stand by his side, the truth of that silent accusation lodges his way into his heart each time he catches sight of Thomas’ ghostly form.

Now, night has fallen again on this dark Darrow, and the same force, the same need that has drawn Athos to the streets each night draws him to the Bramford’s roof. Leaving Porthos and Aramis to sleep in what is left of their apartment - after much argument, he had finally convinced them to rest for a few hours at least - he takes the stairs to the very top, and there, looks over Darrow’s eerie skyline. His heart pounds and his expression is tight with expectation - though for what, he does not know.

Above him, not a star is visible in the sky. Below, no light shines.

Then, somewhere behind him, Athos hears a sudden sound that interrupts the ghostly silence.

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Aramis curses for the blood staining Porthos' shirt. Perhaps free of that ashen world, the wound will finally heal. He can only hope that adrenaline will carry him long enough to restitch it properly. Already he feels lulled by their new, comparative safety. He feels as if he could sleep for years, now finally able, but he will need to get through the stitches without his hands shaking with exhaustion first. The sooner they reach home, the better.

Aramis pulls Athos in against his side, ready to steady the both of them on their journey home.

"It's fine," Porthos says gruffly. "They pulled when my feet hit the ground, it's not injured again. A few stitches and I'm fine again." He just wants to feel fine again, and he wants to sleep. He wants all three of them to sleep curled up in their bed for days. He starts the slow walk inside forcibly, out of sheer stubbornness just to get them moving.

Athos sends Porthos a Look - he has enough of his mind to show his disapproval, if not much more - but begins the slow walk to the Bramford’s front door without further comment. He leans heavily against Aramis, too tired to even feel the shame of being made so helpless. For once, he is grateful for the elevator inside the building, relieved when it takes them swiftly to their floor. Within minutes of departing that ash-filled hell, they are back in their comforting apartment once again.

Athos has never been so glad to see these familiar rooms.