#imagining d’artagnan holding it up each time athos makes a face

[roennq]

Aramis: What's wrong?

D'Artagnan: I just got a look from Athos. Sometimes, I wish I knew...

Aramis: *interrupts* Here...

The Many Faces of Athos: A Beginner's Guide

D'Artagnan: ...

D'Artagnan: *eyes light up*

Aramis: *smugly* You're welcome!

Part 2/3 | 3/3

[flowers-creativity]

Almost the Full Set

Fandom: The Musketeers Characters: Aramis (René d’Herblay), d’Artagnan (Charles), Porthos du Vallon, Athos (Comte de la Fere) Prompt: Dragging themselves along the ground Warnings: Injuries (bloodless), pain, basic field medicine Summary: When things go wrong on a mission, Aramis has little choice but hide and trust in his friends to find him.

Notes: Whoo boy, this is indulgent and very whumpy XD.

@badthingshappenbingo​

Read it on AO3

The Musketeer bent low over his horse's neck, face almost in its mane, as he narrowed his eyes, trying to discern the path in the low light. He could feel the poor animal's muscles tremble beneath him and knew he had to stop and rest soon. Already, he had had to slow down considerably from the earlier headlong flight, or else he would have risked injury to his horse and himself when the forest grew denser around him. Luckily, the same applied for his pursuers, and the sounds of their calls and horses had all but ceased – he wasn't sure if he had succeeded in shaking them completely but at least he had put distance between them and him.

Aramis felt for the thick package of papers in his shirt beneath his doublet. So far, so good. It was fortunate that their Captain had had warning that someone would try to intercept them on their mission, so they had prepared for the eventuality of being separated. They each bore a package with the King's seal but he knew that his package was blank inside. So were the packages Athos and Porthos were carrying – the lot of carrying the real documents had fallen to d'Artagnan this time. He hoped that all of his brothers had escaped, naturally, but the price if their youngest was caught was the highest. And they had almost made it to their destination, too …

The marksman shook his head to dislodge the distracting thoughts. There was no use speculating on the others' fate – he had to concentrate on his own path, and hopefully they would all reach the meeting point with the courier who was to receive the documents the next day. He ruthlessly shoved down the what-if thoughts dogging his heels.

Suddenly, something small and dark darted out of the underbrush and right between his horse's hooves. The beast, already at the end of its tether, reared up, dancing on its hind legs as Aramis latched onto its mane, trying to rein it in. But whether it was the horse's fatigue or his own, whether his skills deserted him in the moment or the animal was too far gone to react to his guidance, the next moment, the reins were torn from his grip, and then he was suddenly weightless, suspended in mid-air for what seemed to last forever, before the ground came rushing at him. He landed hard and then tumbled down a slope ass over head, pain shooting through his body so relentlessly that he could barely figure out where it originated. His head hit a rock, and darkness rose around him. The last thing he knew before it swallowed him was his body rolling to a stop in an awkward sprawl, limbs akimbo.

Then he knew no more for a long time.

Aramis' eyes fluttered open, a groan working its way up his throat. He forced himself to halt the upward movement his body instinctively wanted to engage in and to lay still and take stock. He ached. It seemed to be everywhere, and it took some time to disentangle what was what. His head was ringing from the blow it had suffered, and he raised a hand to run it carefully over the back of his head which felt like a tonne of bricks when he raised it. There was a big lump at its back, and he flinched when his fumbling fingers pressed on it. On the plus side, his right arm was obviously in working condition. He flexed his left hand and gasped at the sharp pain in his wrist that answered the small movement. Alright, the left arm was not quite so whole … His legs were next, and it only took another small movement to tell him that his right arm was probably all he had going for him. His left leg was agony radiating from the lower leg up to the hip and down into the toes – the right was faring slightly better but also protesting any movement involving his knee.

Aramis took a moment to let the pain abate and just breathe, at the same time perking up his ears to check if he could hear anything. Had his horse run off? And what of his pursuers, had they caught up to him while he had been unconscious for however long it had been? There were no sounds beyond those common at night in the forest, bushes rustling and some bird calling in the distance.

Finally, he gathered his courage and, leaning onto his uninjured right arm, he pushed himself upright. Discomfort thrummed through him as the bruises undoubtedly painting his upper body made themselves known. Another minute to breathe, and then he clumsily patted his chest. While it awakened all sorts of pain, none of that was the sharp pain of a broken rib biting into the inside of his chest, so he hoped he had been lucky at least in that regard. Not that he was feeling lucky in any way … There was no sign of his horse, and he dared not whistle for it to return. If the men on his tail were still nearby, he would certainly reveal his location to them.

He went about checking his legs and left arm with his right and ended up determining that he had a badly sprained wrist, his right knee was dislocated, and his left lower leg was broken. Fantastic. With most of his limbs injured, he was practically immobile on the forest floor, with no horse that could help him escape and no chance of getting help since he had no idea where his brothers were, nor could he hope that anyone else was nearby who did not belong to his pursuers. As far as hopeless situations went, he did not care to imagine how it could be worse. And he could feel old ghosts starting to whisper at the back of his mind, reminding him of the last time he had been alone in a forest …

Aramis gritted his teeth and shoved back against the thoughts. He knew his brothers would come for him as soon as they could. The question was when that would be and what he could do until then. The temptation to simply lay back and fall asleep – or maybe pass out – to escape the pain of his injuries and the feeling of loneliness creeping up on him was strong. He looked around the small hollow he had landed in and up the slope he had rolled down. If he was lucky – a bold assumption right now – the riders had passed him by, not seeing the dip in the forest floor and following the trail left by his horse, but he could not be sure of it, having no idea for how long he had been laying senseless. As it was, his only protection was the shadow of the slope, the trees around him too far apart and sparse to offer much cover. That wouldn't do if they were still around or returned to search for him.

His gaze settled on a patch of brushwood between two trees a few lengths from him, and he exhaled slowly. He could crawl underneath there and be well-concealed from any spurious looks, though it might not offer much protection if someone was determined to find him. Still, it was all he had right now.

Slowly, with unending care, he turned onto his side and tried to get onto his hands and knees to make his way over. However, as soon as his weight shifted onto his right knee, his leg started screaming, and it took all of his willpower and nearly biting through his lower lip for him not to do the same. He collapsed forward onto his stomach, his left arm joining into the cacophony of his ailments when it was trapped underneath him. Aramis screwed his eyes shut, his breath coming in rapid bursts as he wrestled the pain back under control. It seemed to take ages until he could finally free his arm and now lay with his face in the soft forest soil, panting. It took even longer until he could muster the courage to try again. Shifting back onto his left knee had more pain racing up and down his leg but it was bearable �� for a moment, until he moved his right arm forward and tried to follow it with the opposite leg, and the pain swelled in a horrible crescendo. This time, the part of his body that rebelled was his stomach, and he tried desperately to hold himself up as vomit punched its way up his throat and out of his mouth. At the last moment, he avoided falling into it face-first by letting himself sway and topple to the left, managing to get his arm out of the way in time. Then he lay on his side, heaving some last empty gasps, tears leaking from the edges of his eyes.

Wearily, Aramis finally raised his head to look around and think again. His situation had not changed, he still needed to get to the cover. Crawling on hands and knees was not an option, though, given his experiences right now. What else was there? He groaned as he had to admit there was only one other way he could think of right now, one that mostly required the work of his arms – he could probably use his left if he kept the wrist raised. He'd have to drag himself over the ground.

He still had so much dignity left that he did not simply flop onto his belly – and thereby into the pool of vomit – but laboriously turned onto his back and then back onto his belly on the other side. Then he took a deep breath and murmured to himself: “Get to it, Aramis!” He dug his left elbow into the earth first to test if it worked and managed to drag himself forward without his wrist touching anything. It was not graceful, nor was it painless, but bit by bit, hand over elbow, he managed to worm his way along the ground towards the promise of cover and safety. The drag marks he left behind were probably a heavenly present to any tracker who came by … He just had to trust that they were not easy to see from atop the slope, which was all he could hope for, really. If someone climbed down into the hollow, they would surely find him, drag marks or not.

By the time he made his way to the underbrush, he was trembling and his vision was swimming and darkening, starbursts of pain bursting through, and all he wanted to do was collapse. He forced himself to endure until he had dragged himself beneath the branches, though, and painfully manoeuvered around so his face was oriented towards the slope and the path atop of it, drawing his pistols and sword and laying them down at his right, ready to be taken up in a single movement.

Then he put his right hand beneath his head, resting his cheek atop it, and sighed out a last, torturous groan before he closed his eyes, and the darkness swallowed him.

The next time Aramis became fully aware, light filled the forest and made him wince as his eyes fluttered open. He had been dragged back to something like consciousness by pain a few times throughout the night but it never lasted long, and he was half expecting the same right now. Still, he tried again to open his eyes, squinting until they had become accustomed to the brightness. Then he lay quietly, taking stock and listening to any sounds infiltrating his impromptu hideout. His injuries still smarted but hadn't worsened, and he knew that while his throat was dry, he could stay in place for quite a while, maybe even one or two days, without being in danger. The thought sent his heart rate soaring, though, and he sent a fervent prayer to God that he would not be forced to endure this. Right now he was holding on, the early autumn forest still lush and green enough with only a few patches of red, brown and gold mixed in that he knew it was not the same. He still had to wrestle a jolt of panic down whenever he remembered that he was alone and barely able to move, and no one knew where he was.

Resisting the urge to shift which only would awaken his aches and injuries, he lay his head down again and sighed. At least his work of dragging himself into the shelter of the underbrush had paid off – he doubted the men were still nearby. Now he had to hope for the opposite, that he wasn't too well-hidden for Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan to find him. “Hurry up, please,” he murmured to himself.

He drifted, then, the unrelenting pain and discomfort keeping him from surrendering to sleep again while he was too exhausted and sore to stay fully aware. This state was not that deep that the sound of voices did not pierce through the veil, however, and he raised his head, trying to listen intently.

“--sure?”

“--course not sure but--horse tracks--” Scraps of their talk floated down to him, and he held his breath. Oh, he hoped this was not his mind playing tricks on him, or was he delirious from pain and old ghosts?

“--like a goddamn needle--haystack.”

Throwing caution to the wind, he raised his own voice: “Athos! Porthos!”

There was a short silence, then he heard the best sound in the world: His best friend's voice, calling out in relief and disbelief: “Aramis!”, and then the sound of someone crashing and sliding down the slope.

“Here!” he called again, “I'm here!” He bit down hard on his lip as he moved stiff muscles to drag himself forward a bit, out of the underbrush's protective shadow.

Heavy steps came closer and then came to a stop before him. For a moment, he only saw boots in front of his face, then Porthos dropped into a crouch to meet his eyes. “There you are!” he said happily, relief in every line of his face. “What have you done to yourself this time?”

“I'll have you know it was my horse and the earth who did it to me,” Aramis huffed indignantly but then inclined his head in concession and enumerated: “Sprained left wrist, dislocated right knee, fractured lower left leg.” He hesitated but added: “Hit my head, too, and I was unconscious for a while, so possibly a mild concussion, too.” His head was actually the least painful part right now, and he was chalking his nausea the night before up to the pain rather a concussion, but those were hard to determine in yourself.

Porthos' eyebrows had risen ever higher with each item on the list, and Athos who was coming up behind him huffed in a mixture of exasperation and some relief: “You really outdid yourself this time.”

Aramis craned his neck up to look at his oldest brother and deadpanned: “Yes, well, I'm quite disappointed I didn't get the full set.” He nodded to his uninjured right arm. “Though I think there's also an extensive collection of bruises to go with everything else. I won't go tumbling down a slope again very soon, I assure you.”

“That's good to hear,” Porthos grumbled. “We all appreciate that.” He moved to one side and gestured to Athos to take the other as he carefully took hold of Aramis' left upper arm.

“You probably won't be doing much of anything for a while besides sitting around in bed and being bored to death,” Athos said mildly while he followed Porthos' example and grasped his arm on the right.

Aramis rolled his eyes which made his head ache more – alright, he had probably been right about the concussion – and replied: “Lovely.” He steeled himself for what would come next and bit down on any sounds of pain that threatened to escape when Porthos and Athos pulled him from the shrubs and levered him upright. It was still less painful than anything he could have done on his own, he was sure, and they did their best to be as gentle as possible. They slung his arms over their shoulders, and he put down his right leg very carefully to take some of his weight to prevent all of it resting on Athos' shoulders – the difference in height between Athos and Porthos meant that he was hanging slightly lopsided between them.

They waited quietly until he had adjusted to being upright and had stopped panting as if he had run for several leagues. His head suddenly snapped up, and he asked anxiously: “d'Artagnan?”

“He's up there with the horses,” Porthos soothed him.

Aramis breathed a sigh of relief. “The mission?”

“Completed,” Athos said as he and Porthos slowly began to move and Aramis did his best to at least move his right leg with them without jarring the knee too much, keeping the broken left leg clean off the ground. “d'Artagnan had arrived at the chateau first and had already handed off the papers to the messenger before Porthos and I got there.”

Aramis nodded. “Good work. So, was I the only unlucky man who had someone on their trail?”

Porthos snorted. “No, you only were the only unlucky one who fell off his horse,” he replied. He hesitated, then added: “Though I did get lost and only got there this morning when Athos and d'Artagnan were about to leave and look for both of us.”

“I'm quite thankful you made it in time,” Athos drawled, “one needle in a haystack is bad enough.”

“You did find this needle well enough,” the marksman said with a smile. “Thank you, brothers.”

The other two Musketeers did not reply – all of them had thanked the others for similar acts, and all of them had been told that there was no need for thanks but they still kept doing it. Aramis figured they had given up on protesting for similar reasons as he had. Some things just needed to be said.

Getting up the slope was difficult and painful for the injured man, and at one point Athos had to call for d'Artagnan to come and join them to help. The young Gascon followed the call with an eagerness that clearly told of how difficult it had been for him to stay behind and look after the horses while the others went to get Aramis. The marksman suspected that d'Artagnan had to restrain himself forcefully from accosting him with an embrace but as they were balancing quite precariously on the uneven decline, he was very glad that the Gascon did manage to do so and just went to help them without comment.

Finally, they arrived up top, and Aramis felt like collapsing on the spot. The others seemed to be aware of that, and Porthos and Athos carefully lowered him to the ground while d'Artagnan rushed off and returned a moment later with a water skin he thrust at Aramis. He took it gratefully and drank from it deeply but forced himself to stop and wait if the water would settle long before his thirst was satiated.

He was aware of d'Artagnan kneeling down at his side and Athos softly relating to him what Aramis had told them about his injuries. As long as they didn't touch him, however, Aramis did not care what they did right now, concentrating on catching his breath, taking some more sips from the water skin and waiting for some of the agony accosting his legs to die down. He was brought back to more awareness by d'Artagnan's hand on his arm and his voice saying his name.

“Aramis,” the Gascon repeated, observing him with a worried frown that smoothed out slightly when he raised his eyes to meet the young man's gaze. “I think we need to set the broken leg and relocate your knee before we can go,” d'Artagnan said uncomfortably. “Or do you think it's better to leave them until we're somewhere a physician can care for you?”

Aramis smiled grimly. “No, you're right,” he said, “the pain will far more manageable once everything is back where it belongs.” He did not look forward to it but it had to be done. While d'Artagnan had already proven an adept student in field medicine, he had little experience with broken bones as of yet. But Porthos and Athos were here, too, and had their fair share of experience in this regard.

d'Artagnan bit his lip worriedly but finally nodded, steeling himself, and got to his feet. “Porthos, can you find some sticks to splint his leg?” he requested. He fetched his medic satchel from his horse and returned to sort through it and ready a pile of bandages at Aramis' side. Then he held out a small flask of brandy to him. “Since we don't need it for any of your injuries, you may as well use it,” he smirked. “As impressive as they are, at least you did good work keeping this bloodless, for once.”

The marksman snorted and snatched the flask out of his hand. “We'll speak about that again when you come off your horse during a chase through a dark forest,” he replied, pointing it at the young man, then opened the flask and took a large swallow, relishing the burn down his throat.

“Pfft.” d'Artagnan only gave him an obnoxious grin, as if the idea of him falling off his horse was too ridiculous to contemplate, and Aramis rolled his eyes – ouch – and took another drink. Already he could feel some of the edges of the pain dull as the alcohol filled him with a subtle warmth.

Before long, Porthos was back with two sturdy pieces of a branch, and d'Artagnan looked them over with a satisfied nod. He then waved over both Porthos and Athos, positioning them to hold Aramis down while he knelt down next to his legs. “Ready?” he asked the injured man. Aramis took a deep breath and nodded – he was as ready as he'd ever be.

“On three,” d'Artagnan said, and Aramis braced himself. “One – two – three!” Pain burst from his leg and overwhelmed his vision, his mind, his body … For a moment, it was everything, and the rest of the world came back to him only slowly. He was aware of a large hand stroking his hair, of a deep voice murmuring something – he did not understand the words but the tone was soothing, comforting. Finally, he blinked his eyes open, tears clinging to his lashes and breaking the light into a kaleidoscope of colours. Porthos' face appeared over him, upside-down, and the brawler asked: “There, you back with us?”

Aramis nodded weakly. He raised his head until he could see d'Artagnan down by his legs and waved at him. “Go on,” he rasped, his voice rough and throat dry. He wanted to have this over with, delaying the inevitable would only make it hurt worse.

Porthos caught his head as he let it fall back again and lowered him carefully to the ground while there was quite some discussion between d'Artagnan and Athos he didn't follow. All that counted was that a bit later, one of them touched his hand and said. “All right, Aramis, here we go. On three. One – two – three!”

His other leg exploded in pain, and Aramis jerked upwards, throwing his head back. Strong hands held him down as he tried to escape, and he thrashed blindly. Maybe he was screaming, but he could not hear it himself over the ringing in his ears.

Sometime later he came back to himself, throat and head aching, but it was an improvement that he could actually feel this over the pain in his leg which was simmering down to a manageable level. Porthos was still at his side, stroking his hair, and he rolled his eyes upwards to meet his gaze. “Water?” he asked breathlessly.

Porthos nodded quickly, and a moment later a water skin appeared and was carefully held to his lips. He only took a few sips but they soothed his throat, and he sank back with a thankful sigh.

d'Artagnan reached for his hand to give it a squeeze and said: “It's over, you did it.” While the young Musketeer got to work bandaging both lower limbs, Athos got up and moved so he could kneel down opposite of Porthos, laying a gentle hand on Aramis' shoulder. “We'll rest a while so you can recover,” he told him. “What do you think how much time you need?”

“Athos, that's not fair!” Porthos protested but Aramis put a hand on his arm – or at least attempted to; he actually ended up patting weakly at the front of Porthos' doublet. “It's alright, Porthos,” he told him. Directed at Athos, he said: “d'Artagnan should have some of the powder for a pain draught – have him make me one, please. After that, I'll need to sleep for a bit, and then we can go. Two hours, maybe?”

Athos nodded and patted his shoulder. “I'm sorry, my friend,” he said, “but even if the mission is no longer pressing, we should get back to Paris. I'm sure you will recover better in a bed than camping on the forest floor, too.”

“Quite likely, yes. No need to apologise, I understand,” Aramis replied.

d'Artagnan joined the other two and handed Porthos a cup. “How are you doing?” he asked the injured man.

Aramis gave him a smile, even if it did not reach its usual brightness. “I'm alright and happy you've turned out such an adept pupil. Finish up with this one, please?” He gestured towards the sprained wrist.

“Of course,” d'Artagnan nodded. By the time he had wrapped the limb firmly with a bandage, Porthos had made the marksman drink the draught, and Aramis was blinking sleepily up at his brothers gathered around him.

“Sleep, Aramis,” Athos ordered, “we'll be here when you wake up, and we'll take you home then.”

Aramis nodded, his eyes heavy with fatigue. “I know. You always do.” And secure in this knowledge, he breathed out, closed his eyes and let sleep claim him.

[veneataur]

Story 5 for Whumptober. I’m starting to feel a little bad about doing this all to Aramis.

Prompt: Explosion

Fandom: BBC’s The Musketeers

Title: A Kitchen Mishap

d’Artagnan is first alerted to something strange in the kitchen by a loud bang. Had it been him or Athos in the kitchen that would have been no surprise, but it’s Aramis, the baking wizard. So, he goes to investigate moving quicker after hearing a thump followed by a clang and cry of pain.

In the kitchen, on the counter, he finds the mixer, minus the bowl, and knocked over containers of flour, sugar, and other baking things Aramis used, with their contents strewn about the counters and down, what he can see from the end of the kitchen, the fronts of the cabinets. But no Aramis.

Continuing in the kitchen, he walks around the island, finding Aramis sitting, back against the cabinets, legs bent at the knees, with the missing bowl turned upside down on Aramis’ head.

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan says, squatting down and moving to remove the mixing bowl. With it gone, Aramis shakes his head, wincing at what must be a headache thanks to the sturdy metal bowl. d’Artagnan can’t help the chuckle that turns into a full-blown laugh at the sight of dough stuck in clumps to Aramis’ hair, matting the usually unruly locks down. Chunks of batter have fallen down onto his face, mixing with the flour coating his face, neck, and shoulders.

It’s a far cry from Aramis the talented amateur baker and much more like that time d’Artagnan tried to help Athos make Aramis a birthday cake. Porthos came home to find them both and the kitchen a mess.

Now, Aramis hasn’t responded yet and has a rather startled look on his face.

“Aramis, you okay?”

“d’Art’nan?” Aramis looks over at the young man, confusion clear on his face.

“Are you okay?”

“What happen’d,” Aramis asks in a lost tone.

“That’s what I was wondering. From the looks of it, you had a baking accident.”

“What happened,” Aramis repeats, glancing around the kitchen, taking in the aftermath of his accident.

“Where are you hurt?”

“Hurt?” Aramis looks back at d’Artagnan.

“Yes, the mixing bowl was on your head. I assume you didn’t put in there yourself.” d’Artagnan does his best to visually examine Aramis for injuries. There’s nothing obvious, though the confusion might indicate a concussion, but he’s not as trained as Aramis in detecting concussions.

“It fell.”

“And how did you wind up on the floor?”

“I fell.”

“You fell? Did you trip? Were you dizzy?” d’Artagnan moves closer to check Aramis.

“Slipped, I think.”

“You slipped?”

“I think so.” Aramis pauses. d’Artagnan watches as Aramis looks around again, slowly examining his surroundings. Then he looks at d’Artagnan again, fixing him with an unsettlingly confused look. “What happened?”

“Let’s get you up. I think you need a trip to the ER.” d’Artagnan moves to help Aramis to his feet when there’s a loud pop in the area of the oven. That springs Aramis into action, though it’s nothing elegant. He’s unsteady and slips a few times, gripping the counter for balance until he gets to the oven. d’Artagnan’s right next to him, keeping him steady as well and grabbing potholders.

With the oven door open, the smell of burnt cake fills the air. Aramis reaches for it when d’Artagnan shoves him out of the way, grabbing the cake pan with the potholders. Burned hands are the last thing Aramis needs right now. Unfortunately, the movement is too much for Aramis, sending him straight back to the floor. Only his outstretched hands keep his head from colliding with the floor and giving him a worse concussion.

d’Artagnan takes care of the oven and then goes to check on Aramis. He hasn’t moved from his position but has resumed his confused examination of the kitchen.

“I’m going to get the car keys, Aramis. Why don’t you work on getting some of the dough out of your hair.” d’Artagnan hands him a towel. He takes it, still looking puzzled. d’Artagnan moves the hand with the towel to Aramis’ head, hoping he’ll get the picture. “I doubt you want to show up in the ER with dough in your hair. Not quite the ladies’ man, like that.” He gives Aramis an encouraging smile before running to shut off the TV and get what he’ll need to take Aramis to the ER.

When he’s back in the kitchen, he finds Aramis is slowly plucking tiny bits of dough from his hair, still looking around in confusion. At that, d’Artagnan drops the shoes he was going to try to put on the man as well as the jacket and goes back for a blanket. Then he gets Aramis to his feet.

“What happened?” Aramis has that same lost tone to the question.

“Let’s get going.” He tosses the blanket around Aramis’ shoulders, putting an end in each of the man’s hands and hopes that he’ll keep hold. It’s not terribly cold but Aramis complains about the cold easily.

“d’Artagnan?”

“Yes.” d’Artagnan slows in his efforts to guide Aramis out of the kitchen towards the backdoor and the car.

“What happened?”

“You had an accident.” They’re nearly out the door.

“Was I baking?”

“Yes, and you had an accident.”

“Did something hit me?”

“Yes, your mixing bowl.” They’re finally out the door. He pauses for a second to lock up, being sure to keep a firm hand on Aramis so he doesn’t wander off.

“That would hurt.”

“I imagine so.”

“What happened?”

“You had an accident in the kitchen.”

“But I was baking.”

“Yes. You had a baking accident.”

“But I’m Aramis.”

“Last I checked, yes.” They are so close to the car that d’Artagnan wants to just shove the man the next few feet, but he’s worried about his balance.

“What happened?”

It’s that moment when Athos and Porthos pull up in the driveway and d’Artagnan audibly sighs. Both men are laughing as they get out of the car.

“What happened,” Porthos asks as he’s the first to recover. While Athos isn’t as prone to laughing as the rest of them, when he does laugh, it takes forever for him to regain his composure.

“He had an accident in the kitchen,” d’Artagnan explains.

“An accident in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, he was mixing something and it looked like it exploded. The kitchen’s worse than him if you can believe it.”

“So, where’re you going?”

“ER. The mixing bowl landed on his head and he’s confused.”

“You sure he needs it? He’s probably shocked that he had a baking accident.”

“He’s not moving right, unsteady, and keeps asking the same question even when I tell him what happened.”

“What happened?” Aramis starts in again, tone the same as before.

“See? I’m sure he’s confused about how it happened, but that’s something more wrong.”

“Alright.” Porthos sighs. “Let’s get him in Athos’ car and to the ER.”

“He’s… not get…ing in… with all… that dough,” Athos says breathlessly, fighting the chuckles.

“I tried to get him to take it out, but he just sat there plucking it out in tidbits, staring and asking what happened.” D’Artagnan can’t help the whine as the frustration of dealing with Aramis reaches a peak, which sends Athos back into fits.

“d’Artagnan, you drive. Athos you’re shotgun. I’ll sit in the back with Aramis and keep the dough from getting everywhere.” Porthos takes Aramis from d’Artagnan and steers him to the backseat. Athos, still laughing, gets in the front seat and d’Artagnan in the driver’s. He’s just backing out when he hears Aramis speak again.

“P’thos? What happened?”

As Porthos starts up the familiar routine, Athos laughs harder and d’Artagnan wishes he’d taken the extra shift at work instead of had an easy night in.

[general-du-vallon]

for @canadiangarrison: I would like Athos saying this to Porthos, please: “As much as I want you to rest right now, it’s freaking me out that I can hold you down this easily", canon. It’s au, I dunno how or anything but it is set in my nice world where Constance and Anne are best gay friends and raise the lil prince in their non trad fam with his Dad and they all respect each other and... this is not about that at all. Like, at all. I dunno. Have fun :) LOL

Rest, that’s the eventual decision of the court physician when Porthos is dragged there by Constance, pulling in favours from Anne (Anne owes her a LOT of favours, after four years’ worth of companionship and friendship). Porthos comes out scowling and ignores Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan many questions. He stomps back to the garrison and Treville greets them all cheerfully, then asks his own set of questions. Porthos is a little more deferential to Treville but still refuses actual answers to the questions, instead being vague and aggressively polite. He adds ‘sir’ or ‘captain’ to the end of every sentence in a manner quite frustrating and rather rude, though not in a way that can be pointed out. Treville stomps off up to his office and Porthos’s chin lifts, his lips tip up a tiny bit at the corners and his eyes brighten just a bit. He turns to Aramis and gets hold of his shoulder in a firm grip, propelling him into the practise yard and drawing his sword.

“Shall we read into him choosing to spar with Aramis instead of one of us?” d’Artagnan asks, he and Athos following to watch and settling on a table, boots up on the bench.

“Oh yes,” Athos says, eyes following Aramis carefully, watching each move. “We are far better than Aramis. Look how he’s still dropping his arm and throwing in ridiculous flourishes. He’s keeping an eye on the figure he cuts instead of his footwork.”

d’Artagnan laughs and watches for it, beaming when he catches Aramis fixing his hair and adjusting his stance to better show off his neat waist and profile. Porthos also catches the distraction and moves surprisingly quickly, getting in under Aramis’s loose guard and nicking his chest, above his open shirt-ties, inside the collar of his jacket, left open so it’ll billow. It’s neat and a pretty bit of footwork, deserving applause (possibly not applause, but Porthos likes applause so d’Artagnan fulfills that requirement when he feels it appropriate). d’Artagnan’s bringing his hands together and between once clap and then next Porthos loses his balance and falls, blade still dangerously close to Aramis’s throat. d’Artagnan stills and Athos stiffens, already moving, but Aramis has been watching for this and steading Porthos, twitching out of the way of the blade- Porthos only makes a small shallow cut along Aramis’s collarbone. Athos takes Porthos’s other arm and they hold him between them, his sword clatters to the ground, dropped, and Porthos pants, head bowed.

“Must I-” Athos begins.

“No,” Porthos says, still bad tempered but a little sheepish. He glances at Aramis.

“No apology necessary,” Aramis says, dabbing at the cut with a handkerchief. “No damage done.”

Porthos gives Aramis an irritable shove and Athos is sure he’d get the same treatment if Porthos could stand without aid right now. Athos takes advantage of whatever dizziness has overcome his friend and pulls him across the yard to the garrison rooms, ignoring Porthos’s protests that he’s fine and fit and ready to ride, blood and glory, screaming into battle.

“You’d fall from poor Mercredi’s back and leave her to fight a battle alone, and a horse is no match for whatever terrible enemy you are imagining,” Athos says, kicking his door until the latch gives (it usually does under firm vibration, Athos has fixed it. Inebriated entry is a normal enough occurrence that easy access is necessary).

“I bested Aramis,” Porthos points out as he’s propelled a little violently onto Athos’s bed, unmade this morning. “I’m fit.”

“Who exactly are you planning to fight, anyway?” Athos asks, curious for the answer, genuinely interested. There’s fears of a war with the Spanish, since the mess Rochefort made of things, but so far Anne has managed a tenuous peace with her brother. Athos takes off his boots and jacket and rests a hand on Porthos’s stomach, smiling when Porthos turns his head on the pillow to look up at Athos.

“Dunno,” Porthos says. “Red guard? Infidels?”

Athos snorts and removes Porthos’s boots, as he’s making no move to do so. He also takes Porthos’s belt and jacket, before Porthos notices he’s being readied for bed. Athos can guess the physician’s advice- if it was a serious illness Porthos would, grudgingly, have shared, and if it was nothing at all he’d have been crowing victory. Therefore, the probability is that the physician prescribed rest. Athos’s fingers find the ridge across Porthos’s hip and stomach, the still-healing and barely-scarred wound that laid him low month ago. He’s been back for two months but Athos has noticed his fatigue, and they’ve all noticed his bouts of dizziness. Athos hopes it’s from the way he’s been forgetting to eat and not been drinking, or rather drinking mainly wine, and not from some business with his head. He had taken a wallop or two in the fight, with bandits this time, near Savoy, but Athos is pretty sure Porthos’s hard head was up to the challenge.

“You barely acquiesce to Aramis’s urging that you attend church at Easter-tide,” Athos points out. “As infidel, without the egregious associations with bandits and those of a violent nature, or the use of the term as an accusation of baseness, is simply someone without religion…”

“What you on about?” Porthos asks, face scrunched up in amused disgust. “Anyway, if we’re gonna be pretentious and learned, let’s go Latin, where it means unfaithful. I’m gonna go fight the unfaithful.”

“What do you want them to be faithful to?” Athos asks, smiling again, stroking his cheek. He enjoys listening to Porthos talk.

“What’d it be like, do you think, if people were really faithful to God?” Porthos asks.

“What?” Athos says, hand stilling. Talking about belief is not the safest thing in the world, they’re all meant to believe in the same God and go through the important motion of church and prayer and faith. Athos had never taken Porthos for a religious man, but the way he said God’s name then had sounded different.

“Yeah, faith,” Porthos says, more energetically, pushing Athos away and sitting up. “Faith in Him, and that we can serve him by honouring and respecting people, and fighting for justice and what’s good and right. Instead of thinking that ‘faith’ means going to church and pretending and some kind of eradication of people who don’t fit in with our view of the world. We should have faith that if He made us, then we belong, and have faith that His view is right.”

“Oh,” Athos says, blinking. He’s known Aramis and Porthos to talk religion and debate theology, but he’s not usually the recipient of Porthos’s own ideas about faith.

“I’ve got faith as deep as Aramis,” Porthos says, defensive and belligerent. “Mine just trusts in God as I’ve found him, not in tracts and politics and maneuvering lines of what counts in order to make our wars.”

“I think Aramis…” Athos lets the thought slip away and presses a hand to Porthos’s chest, pushing him back down. “Stop distracting me with debates and lie down and rest.”

“You’re the one suggesting I fight infidels. Maybe I’ll fight Richelieu's ghost, I don’t think he had any faith at all,” Porthos grumbles, flat against Athos’s flat pillow again. Athos tries to put a blanket over his legs but Porthos kicks it forcefully away. “I’ll get my sword and go fight King Louis, he is perhaps not faithful.”

“I think we should forget the Latin for a while, at least until we’re able to censor ourselves and not speak treasonously,” Athos says.

“Athos, Aramis fucked the queen. There is no treason us four can commit any more, we’re already doomed,” Porthos says. Athos flinches, which makes Porthos laugh. “What? You think royalty somehow do it different?”

“You really should sleep,” Athos whispers, looking at his open window, the passing musketeers out in the yard close.

“Ah, thinking of me getting myself in trouble,” Porthos says, fondly, reaching up to pat Athos’s cheek. “I’m bored, I’m getting up.”

Athos sits, unsure what to do next. Aramis would probably sit on Porthos, d’Artagnan would probably get food and feed him until he was too full to move. Athos watches as Porthos sits up and gathers his things from where Athos dropped them off the side of the bed. When he leans over his eyes flutter closed, another fit passing over him.

“What did the physician tell you about that?” Athos asks, tersely.

“Nothing,” Porthos says, sitting up and glaring, stubbornly not swaying or closing his eyes.

Athos reaches out with two fingers and gives Porthos’s chest a gentle push, curious to see what will happen. To his surprise Porthos falls back, letting go his boots, lying flat on his back again. Athos hums and takes off his jacket, plan formed. He lies on top of Porthos, head resting on Porthos’s shoulder. Porthos struggles but it’s ineffective and eventually he subsides, grumbling softly. Athos stays there, glad of his success, and Porthos lies still and quiet for a time. They listen to the passing musketeers, their ribald conversations and complaints about their captain. Treville might technically be an advisor to the king but as he spends most of his days here and still fulfills the function of captain, they all ignore that.

“As much as I’m glad you’re resting,” Athos says, getting up on an elbow and looking at Porthos’s drowsy face, noting the pinch around his eyes and mouth, “it is not reassuring that I can hold you down so easily.”

Porthos opens his eyes and beams at Athos, bucking him off and getting up to his feet in a swift movement, grabbing Athos’s sword and standing, back to the door, steady and firm. In his stockings. Athos laughs, taking in his companion of so many years- broad shoulders, shirt loose, trousers tied messily this morning. His hair’s a cloud around his head, clean from leaping into a river with d’Artagnan yesterday. Porthos always makes something relent in Athos, the years and years of holding himself stiff and in control giving just enough. Porthos raises an eyebrow.

“Yes very good,” Athos says, shaking his head. “I am much relieved. I would be more impressed if I could not tell how much it is taking out of you.”

“My point is that I’m able,” Porthos says, dropping the sword and coming back over, dropping onto the bed with as little grace as the blade had falling. Athos is worried for his sword, his creaking bed, and Porthos. Less for Porthos, though.

“The physician told you to rest, which means you are fine,” Athos says, then holds up a hand when Porthos opens his mouth to say yes he knows he’s fine he’s been trying to tell people he’s fine. “You are fine, my Porthos, but your body needs to rest. You will make yourself ill really, if you do not rebuild your strength. Your blood is too thin from the loss of it. Drink wine and sleep and it will be thick once more.”

“Are you making up medical babble?” Porthos asks, crammed onto the bed, Athos pushed against the wall by him. It’s oddly comfortable.

“I am. Move, this is ridiculous,” Athos says. Porthos looks baffled for a moment then snorts and moves onto his back again so Athos can sprawl on top.

“Don’t trust me? That hurts, brother,” Porthos says, wriggling a hand over his heart, between his own and Athos’s bodies. “You are warmer than your tatty blanket. And it smells, what have you been doing with your evenings, Athos? Your bed smells like a stable.”

Athos keeps to himself that he slept in with Jeudi a few time last week when he was too drunk to find his room accurately. It’s comfortable and warm on top of Porthos and Athos is feeling dozy. He knows that there will be a war with the Spanish, and not in the too distant future, but right now the young prince is growing up, the queen is using her power to keep Louis from running the country like an infant, Louis himself is more interested in fatherhood than anything much else. And when war does come, Porthos will in all probability meet it with joy and stubborn competence. Athos will meet it with him, and probably lie on top of him to stop him getting himself into trouble. It’s an enjoyable technique. Porthos lets out a great snore, interupting Athos’s thoughts, and Athos takes the opportunity of Porthos sleeping to examine the lines on his face, the fatigue. It all looks like it’ll clear, with sleep. Athos smiles and rests his head on Porthos’s chest again, content.

[philosopherking1887]

I have been told it is @incredifishface​‘s birthday today, so in honor of that, I’m posting this link to her AO3 page and telling everyone that all of her Thorki fic is fantastic. Yes, all of it. Happy birthday!! (I think I missed it where you are, so happy timezone-extended birthday...)

Cocky boys -- "In which Thor and Loki are the top stars in a studio of online porn, famously hate each other, but by popular vote they get paired to perform together in the Christmas Eve Live Event, and are not happy about it.”

A classic of the enemies-to-lovers genre, by turns hilarious, poignant, and scorchingly hot. The Tony Stark narration is especially wonderful. Dog inside the heart -- “Thor and Loki are the children of a dynasty of great actors. Their mother Frigga is a grande dame of the stage and muse of the finest European movie directors, their father Odin is going down in history as the Lawrence Olivier of his time. Thor and Loki are following on their steps, with everything to prove, to themselves and to the world. But as they become dragged under the public eye, so does their past, full of secrets and lies.”

Tragic, epic, and wrenching; sometimes emotionally difficult to read so READ THE BLOODY TAGS. Loki is such a fucking hero in this one, oh my God. Unfaithful -- “Thor has a good life with his wife Jane and a job in a law firm on the rise, until international superstar lawyer Loki Laufeyson is recruited to work in the firm's most ambitious case. Loki brings with him not only his encyclopaedic knowledge of law, his silver tongue, his lack of morals, and a playful, mercurial, chaotic approach to the work, but also his outrageous playboy lifestyle... and his long, complicated past history with Thor.”

Did I mention that everything Fishie/Bookie writes is incredibly hot? Just look at the tags: “Angry Sex, Hate Sex, sad sex, making up sex, breaking up sex, Goodbye Sex, i can't live without you sex, we can't keep doing this sex, oh god the pain sex.” Hot and emotionally powerful! This one also brought my part-time Frostiron shipper to the fore (to be clear: Thor/Loki is always the endgame ship; but Loki/Tony is a completely fitting, emotionally appropriate, and also kind of hot stop along the way). Musketeers Assemble -- “Poor gullible Steve, freshly arrived in Paris from the provinces, has been ensnared by the Trickster, Cardinal Richelieu's Spy or Spies, and now the Queen's good name and the fates of France and England rest on the ability of his Musketeer friends, gloomy Thor, merry Tony, and steady Bruce, to help him retrieve what the Trickster has stolen.”

No, this is not crack, but it is similarly addictive. My knowledge of Dumas’s The Three Musketeers is limited, but from what I know, the character correspondences -- Steve as D’Artagnan, Thor as Athos, Bruce as Porthos, Tony as Aramis, Loki as Milady -- are spot-on. And Thor and Loki’s tragic backstory... oh, my heart. Night of Kings (series) -- “Loki’s hold on the throne of Jotunheim is finally strong and secure. There is but one thing left to do: renew Jotunheim’s alliance with Asgard. But when the King of Asgard asks him to cement their alliance by spending a night in his bed, Loki realizes you can't learn everything just from books...”

Sort of Game of Thrones/ A Song of Ice and Fire-inspired, with Thor as virile horse-lord Khal Drogo and Loki as strong-willed but sexually inexperienced Daenerys Targaryen, but without the sexism and consent issues. Once again, by turns hilarious, poignant, and scorchingly hot... oh wait, that’s all of her stuff. Serpent -- “It's been years, but Thor's still not over Loki. He has put some sort of life back together, but now Serpent are back in town, and whatever semblance of peace and balance he's managed to create is about to be turned on its head.”

A Rockstar!Loki AU -- and in a reversal of the most frequent pattern, Loki is trying to win back a surly, reluctant Thor. And also being the most adorable high-off-his-ass spoiled diva imaginable. A for Asshole -- “Thor is a Class A Asshole. What a fucking shame. He is also the most beautiful thing Loki has seen in his entire life. He’d be willing to make many allowances for that face, that body, that blinding smile, but the truth is, the man is an Asshole of the highest order, an irredeemable, unbearable jerk.”

Yes, even the one-shots dashed off to try to shake writer’s block are delicious nuggets of salivary-gland-stimulating smutty goodness. Thor is an asshole, but Loki will fuck him anyway, under pretty much any conditions...

[flowers-creativity]

Bad Luck (Chapter 12)

Fandom: The Musketeers Characters: Porthos du Vallon, Athos (Comte de la Fere), Aramis (René d’Herblay, d’Artagnan (Charles), Jean Tréville, Flea Warnings: Violence, whipping, racism, slavery, abduction, minor character death Summary: Porthos rarely had bad luck at the card table. But when he hit a streak of really bad luck, it was only the beginning …Soon, the other three Inseparables were desperately searching for their missing friend while he did his best to get back to them.

AO3 link

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11

Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20

The captain of La Perle, a short, barrel-chested man, was far less helpful than the harbour master. It took several minutes of posturing, invoking their status as Musketeers and threatening to involve both the harbour master and the Lieutenant de Police until they finally were able to come aboard and start their search of the ship.

But there was nothing to find, nothing at all, and that made the suspicion Athos had raised come roaring to life because of how there was nothing to find. Empty cabins, an empty cargo hold, a mostly empty deck apart from a skeleton crew … Everything had clearly been cleaned recently. Cleaned out. Aramis stood in the middle of one of the rooms, hands on his hips, and observed the space around him. Maybe it was normal for a ship to be cleaned so thoroughly while in port but it didn't feel like it. This felt like covering up the evidence of what had been going on here.

Regardless of what they had or had not found, though, who they had not found was Porthos, and Aramis' chest ached again with the thought that they might be where he had been, but once again too late.

He turned around as Athos came up to him from behind, and the two shared a glance that told him their leader was thinking along the same lines. “Nothing,” Athos said, “and the absence of something is not valid proof of anything.” For once, his smooth tone did nothing to hide the frustration below it.

Aramis nodded, raking a hand through his hair. “Double down on the captain?” he suggested. It was really all they could do …

Over Athos' shoulder, he saw d'Artagnan enter the cabin but suddenly, the young Gascon stopped, looked down at his feet, and then stooped to pick something up.

“Athos,” d'Artagnan called out, sounding strangely strangled, “Aramis!”

Aramis was at his side in a flash and reached out for the small object d'Artagnan held out to them. His fingers trembled as he closed them around the familiar shape he had seen hanging from the cord around his friend's neck countless times.

Porthos' Saint Jude medallion.

He looked up at Athos who stared at the medallion in his hand, his mouth a grim line. “I think having another chat with our friend, the captain, would be a good idea,” he said, and all earlier frustration had slipped away to be replaced by a chill so deep Aramis felt it in his bones. He unconsciously straightened in response, firming his own mouth and nodding with a new sense of purpose.

The captain stood at the stern, his arms crossed. “I trust you've found my ship in perfect order, Musketeers?” he drawled when they came up to him.

Aramis scowled at him, but Athos only shrugged. “It's a very clean and orderly ship,” he replied and somehow made it sound like disapproval. “But your men seemed to have missed a spot.”

Aramis had to give the captain the credit he was due: He surely was a good card player because his face remained unmoved, and his voice smooth as he asked: “How so?”

“Do you know this medallion?” Athos asked, motioning for Aramis to produce it. He did so but did not surrender it to the man, just held it out for him to see.

The captain stepped closer, studying it, then looked up at Athos. “Of course. It belongs to one of my men,” he replied. Looking around, he waved to one of the sailors. “Hey, Luc! The gentlemen Musketeers have found your medallion!”

The man called Luc came ambling over, looking from his captain to the other men. “My medallion?” he asked, his voice slow and rough.

“Yeah, you told me it's been missing for a while, didn't you?” the captain insisted, gesturing to the small piece of jewellery Aramis still held in the palm of his outstretched hand.

The sailor looked closer at it, and some of the confusion seemed to lift off his face. “Ooh, yes, I been missin' it!” he exclaimed and made to grab it, but Aramis quickly retracted his hand, closing it into a fist around the medallion. d'Artagnan stepped forward and slightly put himself between Aramis and the man, distrust all over his face.

“Your name is Luc?” Athos asked slowly and exchanged a glance with Aramis. The marksman opened his fist again and took the medallion between two fingers, turning it around gently as he added: “Then why is there a P on its back?” And indeed, there it was, scratched in with thin, uncertain lines but unmistakably the first letter of their dear friend's name.

“Oh, he got it from this girl who's sweet on him,” the captain said quickly. “Her name's Pauline, right, Luc?”

“Uh, yes.” The man nodded.

d'Artagnan snorted, and Aramis threw him a sidelong glance. He could see that the Gascon thought about as much of Luc's abilities as a liar as he did – contrary to his captain, the young sailor was barely able to meet their eyes for more than a second, and he was bouncing on the balls of his feet, moving his hands constantly. Aramis turned his gaze to Athos, and a moment later, his friend gave him a short nod while motioning to d'Artagnan to come to his side as he turned to the captain to continue their questioning.

Aramis allowed himself a small smile at how well they understood each other, then let it widen slightly as he stepped at the sailor's side and slung an arm around his shoulders. “Pauline, eh?” he said conversationally. “That's a lovely name. I'm sure she's a very sweet girl.”

Luc swallowed and nodded, mumbling something in the affirmative.

“Planning to make her an honest woman soon?” the Musketeer continued, his voice still light and cheerful, while he steered the man a bit away with the arm around his shoulders.

“Uh, no, sir, not really,” the sailor stuttered.

“Oh, why not? You two surely make such a lovely couple, and you have good work here … I mean, marrying a sailor can be hard since you're gone for such long stretches of time, but she obviously cares a lot for you.” He played with the medallion in his free hand, winking at Luc.

“Uhm ...”

“A trading ship is a good place to work, isn't it? Regular, dependable, and you don't have to worry about what you're transporting, that's for your clients to decide, you just keep the ship running,” Aramis suggested.

Luc nodded eagerly. “That's right,” he agreed.

Aramis leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You know, we are not interested in your crew at all. We just want to find out more about who had last chartered this ship. You and your friends don't have anything to fear from us.”

The sailor relaxed and let out a shaky breath. “Uh, thanks?”

The next moment, Aramis' hand closed around the young man's wrist in a vice-like grip, and he swung him around so they were face to face. “However,” the marksman said, his tone suddenly hard, “I don't like it when people lie to me. So why don't we start over, and you tell me what you know about this medallion,” he held it up, “and the man it belongs to?”

Luc swallowed hard. “I-I actually haven't seen that thing before,” he admitted in a low whisper.

Aramis grinned, but it was sharp and flinty, without an ounce of friendliness to it. “Did you see a man, dark-skinned, about his height--” he pointed to d'Artagnan behind him who was saying something to the captain, gesturing animatedly, “but about twice as wide, short, curly hair, scar through his left eyebrow down his cheek?”

The young man shook his head. “I'm … I'm not sure. They look kinda all th' same to me, y'know?”

Aramis' felt the edges of the medallion dig into his palm and forced himself to relax. “That's why I told you about his scar, how he's built. There are not many who look like that, no matter what.”

Luc shrank back fearfully. “I'm tellin' you, I didn' get a lot of good looks at them. They'd be below deck an' we up here, right?”

Aramis sighed. It rang true, like little that Luc had said before had. “So where do they sell them?” he asked instead. “Where did the last cargo go to?” He felt sick at referring to them, to those men, maybe women, maybe children, maybe Porthos, as cargo.

“I dunno. They don' tell us stuff like that.” Luc set his jaw, and though he still looked nervous, Aramis believed him, as little as he wanted to.

He was about to turn away when the sailor added: “'Course, there's that group that escaped.” Aramis whipped around to him again. “What?”

Luc told him: “One day back on the river. A group of five or so. Fought their way out and jumped overboard.”

Aramis felt his breath leave him in a great whoosh. “Athos!” he called, striding back to his friends with large steps. “Ask him about the ones who fled,” he told him.

Athos looked at him sharply, then turned his attention back to the captain. “What do you know about that?” he asked.

“Luc said it was a group of five, about a day up the river,” Aramis supplied. He crossed his arms and stared down at the shorter man.

“I don't know what you're talking about!” the captain protested.

Athos slammed his hand down on the rail next to him. “I suggest you stop lying,” he said. “I told you before, we want the slavers, not you. But if I don't get answers now, I will happily take apart this ship and your whole crew.”

“And your man there all but admitted to the slaving in two minutes flat,” Aramis said with false cheerfulness. “Imagine what I could get out of him if I had more time!”

The captain glared at the sailor who stood behind them, with d'Artagnan's hand on his shoulder to keep him in place, and who looked like misery personified.

“The men that escaped,” Athos repeated, “was there a large man with them, about his height,” he gestured to d'Artagnan,” but twice as wide? With a scar through his left eyebrow?” Uncharacteristically, d'Artagnan did not object to the reference to his slender frame – though they usually claimed that he could fit into Porthos thrice – as he was too busy glaring at the captain. If looks could kill, the man would have toppled over on the spot. If the edge in Athos' gaze, sharp enough to draw blood, didn't slice him into ribbons first …

The captain visibly deflated. “Can't say, I didn't see them,” he replied reluctantly, “but Cernier talked about a soldier, a big bloke. Seems he was the one who got them out, killed a couple of Cernier's men.”

Aramis felt a flush of pride – of course, Porthos would not give in to this fate without a fight, and of course, he would try to get out as many others as possible. It was quickly followed by more worry, though. One day up the Seine – they must actually have passed the place where he had fled the ship. Had he made it to safety by now? One day was not enough to get back to Paris, especially on foot, but another town or village or even a farm with some sympathetic owners? Or was he still out there?

“Cernier?” Athos asked.

“He's the head of the operation,” the captain said.

“Where is he now?”

The man snorted. “Not here. Once we dropped anchor, he got a dozen men and horses and went back to where they got off the ship.” He smiled nastily. “Hope for the man you're looking for that Cernier doesn't find him.”

Athos went carefully still. “Why?” he asked.

“Well, he obviously wants his goods back. But your man made a lot of trouble for him, eh?” the captain explained, sounding far too smug, and Aramis' hands were itching to punch him. “Cost him five healthy adult males, not to count the people he killed, caused delays and problems … Cernier's not going to care about selling him after that. Gonna make an example of him, I guess.”

d'Artagnan's hand closed around Aramis' arm in an iron grip, and he looked at the Gascon askance, seeing the same fear he was feeling in his eyes. “We've got to find him!” the young Musketeer exclaimed.

“We will.” Athos shot them a reassuring glance, then turned back to the sailor. “Show me on the map where they escaped,” he demanded. The captain, obviously past any attempts to protest and mostly just hoping to get them out of his hair as soon as possible, agreed and took him to his cabin to do so.

When Athos returned, his mouth was set in a grim line of determination. “Aramis, you go back to the inn and get our things ready,” he ordered. “d'Artagnan and I will get us fresh horses. We meet back at the inn and leave immediately.”

Aramis nodded readily, his mind churning out worried thoughts at a dizzying speed. All he wanted was get to Porthos, and everything they could do to achieve that was fine in his books. “Alright, see you in a bit,” he agreed.

He quickly settled the bill for their unused room and made arrangements with the innkeeper to have their previous mounts transferred back to Paris in due time, then carried their bags outside to wait for the others. It was not long until Athos and d'Artagnan came into view astride their horses, one more for him trailing behind d'Artagnan on a lead rope.

As they drew closer, the marksman could not help but gape at the beasts. They had always known that Athos' pockets were somewhat deeper than those of Porthos and Aramis, even as he lived with an austerity bordering on self-deprivation, his one indulgence being the purchase of somewhat better wine on days when he did not only want to get drunk. Once they had learned of his noble background, it had made sense, and since then, Athos had been more willing to share his coin with them, no longer fearing the questions this might cause. But the horses made Aramis appreciate just how deep the former Comte's pockets were and how much he was willing to give for his brothers – they had to be some of the finest animals he had ever seen. Not as flashy as some of the horses in the King's stables, owned by nobles who cared more about looks than performance, their glossy coats spoke of good health nevertheless, their fine build and the animated way they struck the ground with their hooves, impatient to get going, of excellent breeding and a high spirit. They must have cost him half a fortune.

The sound of Athos clearing his throat, followed by d'Artagnan chuckling, made him aware that he was still staring, and he looked up to meet Athos' gaze sheepishly. “If you're quite finished?” the older Musketeer asked, slightly testily.

Aramis nodded and handed up Athos and d'Artagnan's bags, then took the reins of his horse from the Gascon and swung into the saddle. They carefully steered the horses through Le Havre's busy streets until, finally, the crowds thinned, and they could let their mounts speed up, which was very much in line with their riders' wishes.

But before they did, Aramis steered his horse close to Athos' and clapped a hand to his brother's arm, pulling him close enough that he could press a quick kiss to his cheek. “You're one of the most generous men I know, my friend,” he told him.

If one looked closely, one might have seen a faint blush rise in Athos' cheeks. Of course, d'Artagnan and Aramis absolutely did not do so. “It's fine,” he brushed the comment aside sharply. “Tréville will certainly help me get rid of them once we're back in Paris.”

“Get rid of them? But Athos--!” d'Artagnan protested, aghast, and Aramis chuckled. He turned his horse's head back in the direction they had just come from this morning, turning out the argument going on behind him, and sent his thoughts ahead: Hold on, Porthos, we're coming.

[general-du-vallon]

Post Musketeers Don’t Die Easily. I dunno, it’s late. Constance had a shit time in this episode.

Constance sends the woman who comes to help her to the garrison. She can’t go herself, not after that with d’Artagnan. Mary, who came and got her to tell her about Bonacieux, who even likes Bonacieux. When they were first married Constance had found her a comfort, the woman who came and told Constance she was sensible, that love would grow, that affection was important, that ‘the master’ loved her, that a roof and food were important and wonderful. Constance distrusts her, now, which is unfair. She’s a good woman. She takes Constance’s message and returns a little flustered, Porthos removing his hat as he bends to come through the door behind her. 

“Thank you, Mary,” Constance says. 

“I’ll check on the master before I go, shall I?” Mary asks, giving Constance a stern look at being asked to be left alone with this big, armed, muscular soldier. “Stay long enough to escort monsieur back out.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Constance says. “He’s here to see my husband, not me. Boncieux asked for him.”

Mary smiles and bobs a curtsy, issuing further into the house in a rough bustle to tell the master his guest is here. She returns a little confused but shows Porthos up. Constance is surprised, seeing as Bonacieux hadn’t asked for Porthos at all. Mary comes back out. 

“About an order,” she tells Constance, smiling, content. “I’ll be back tomorrow, if you’d like?”

“No, come next week as usual,” Constance says. “I can manage.”

Mary tuts and promises to come tomorrow, then leaves. Finally. Porthos comes back out into the kitchen and sits opposite her, setting his hat and guns on the table. 

“Thought it must’ve been about an order I made with him,” Porthos says. “He was very apologetic about not being able to complete it. I think he misunderstood Mary, must’ve thought I’d come to see him. He’s out of it.”

“I wondered,” Constance says. 

“What can I do for you?” Porthos asks. 

“You said you wanted to be friends, then you lied to me, let me think d’Artagnan was fighting with you, let me think Athos was dead, that d’Artagnan was in trouble again. You do know d’Artagnan, don’t you, sir?” Constance says, looking at her hands on the table-top. “He’s always in trouble and he’s got a hot head.”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wasn’t that hard to sell that bit.”

“You didn’t think that maybe I’d be in trouble, too? Being as he’s close to me, which isn’t exactly a well-kept secret, seeing as the Cardinal bloody well knows. Why he cares I don’t know, but he seemed to enough to send my husband snooping,” Constance says. 

“Didn’t know that, did I?” Porthos says. “Not the only one keeping secrets.”

“My secrets don’t generally put you in line to be kidnapped,” Constance says. “Which, by the way, if you come across a whore called Céline you might do something for her.”

“Who’s she?”

“The woman who Milady’s friend Sarazin put to guard me,” Constance says. “I didn’t much like her obviously, but I got the impression she hadn’t much choice, whatever she said about love. She was a drunk.”

“Ah,” Porthos says. “I might be able to find her. Can’t do much though, I can’t save the world you know.”

“Bloody right, I’ve noticed,” Constance says. She looks up at him, expecting to find at least a little remorse, but all she finds is tiredness. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this? You came and drank wine and ate supper here, two nights before all of this, after rescuing her majesty from that convent.”

“That was good bread,” Porthos says, livening up a little and looking around hopefully. Constance bangs her hand on the table, loud enough to remind him that she’s angry but not enough to bring her husband down. “Sorry. I didn’t have anything to tell, then, and after that, it happened quickly, I didn’t think.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Some friend you are,” Constance says, letting out some of the bitterness and anger of the past few days. 

“Bonacieux is trapping you here with him on purpose, he doesn’t love you, this isn’t love,” Porthos says. “I doubt he ever was really even in danger of dying.”

“Porthos!”

“Yeah yeah, you want to talk about our shit conduct, I know. I know it was shit, we didn’t consider you, we’re awful friends,” Porthos says. Constance holds up a hand to interupt. 

“You,” she says. 

“Right. Me. Anyway, I didn’t know anyone except us knew about what was between you and him, he’s your lodger to the world, it was safer not to tell you, not when we were possibly being watched. Drawing attention to any kind of ties between you and us, any closeness beyond you being his landlady, wouldn’t have helped matters,” Porthos says. 

“And when I came to the garrison and asked how he was and you sent me off home with a platitude, instead of trusting me?”

“Same excuse, plus we were distracted,” Porthos says. “Your husband came looking, you know. Came into the tavern and yelled at us. Should’ve done something then, if you really want to get into it that’s the deficiency in my friendship you should pick at. You want my excuses for that? I just buried Athos. Doesn’t seem to matter much, seeing as he’s not dead.”

“He’s no saint either,” Constance says. “I have no sympathy for Milady, she’s ruthless and cold-hearted, but I heard her story. No woman deserves to be forced, and no one listens to us or gives a damn either way. He thinks his wife’s been mistreated by his brother in her own house and he hangs her for defending herself? Oh, maybe she was lying, maybe she had other faults, she’s certainly murdered since then and she’s all twisted and evil, but I can’t help thinking of my friends, of myself. You say Bonacieux don’t treat me right, but I don’t see you having a go at Athos for treating people badly.” 

“Athos is dead,” Porthos says. “Wouldn’t dream of having a go at a dead man.”

“He’s not dead,” Constance says, her anger faltering. Porthos gives a rough, low laugh and she looks at him again. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Will be one day, sooner than later the way he goes. Doesn’t matter anyway. I’ll trust you in the future Constance, I promise I will.”

“Good enough,” Constance says. 

“Right,” Porthos says. 

He doesn’t stay to drink wine or eat with her, how he sometimes has been. He gets up and sets his hat on his head and leaves, steps heavy. Constance considers worrying about him but decides she doesn’t have the energy. She goes up to the bedroom and passes through, pretending not to notice Bonaxieux awake, and lies down in her narrow bed. 

Porthos returns in the morning, slipping in early with fruit. He’s there when Constance goes down, waiting for her. He gives her a mug of wine and a plate of fruit and some bread and sits beside her, helping himself to the same, stretching his legs out in front of him and eating comfortably. Constance picks at her food and waits, for whatever it is he’s here for. Her face is bruised and the skin feels tight over her cheek, she’s still tired and dirty and sore from being stuck in a cellar, from falling down the steps, from being dragged about and bound. She’s still afraid and worried. She loves d’Artagnan and misses him and worries for him even though he’s got all these friends, and she can’t help the deep guilt over her husband. She promised to make a life with him, before God, and she hasn’t been doing that, recently. He broke his promises to care for her, too, though. His sort of love, Porthos is right, is no love worth having. She can see that, despite Mary’s platitudes. She’s not sure d’Artagnan’s love’ll be much better. It would be wonderful, but he doesn’t take the time to understand any more than anyone else. 

“It’s harder to spend time with you,” Porthos says. “I don’t want to make things harder. I don’t want to leave you alone though.”

“I’m not alone,” Constance says. 

“Yeah, ok,” Porthos says. “There must be women...?”

“Yeah,” Constance agrees. She’s not lying, there are women she’s friends with. But... “Boncieux...”

Porthos grunts his understanding and runs his hand over his hair. Then he looks at her for a long time, reaching out to touch his fingers lightly to her bruise. Finally she sees the regret and remorse she was looking for last night. He lets his hand drop to the table and smiles, forcing cheer. 

“Then you are stuck with me,” Porthos says. “I’ll be subtle. Despite what the others say I can be subtle.”

Constance snorts, both because he is the least subtle person she’s ever met and because she can imagine some of the things that have made the others thing that he isn’t subtle. She trusts him, though, and no one’s noticed yet his comings and goings. As far as she knows, anyway. Maybe she should see if she can poke about a bit and find out for sure. 

“I don’t want you to be lonely,” Porthos whispers. 

“I won’t be,” Constance lies. 

“I dunno what I’d do without the others,” Porthos says. “Except that I do, because I lived a long time before I found that with the musketeers. I know loneliness. If you need me, send for me. You don’t have to send Mary, just leave a token. You know that tall wall on your way to the garrison, just passed the tavern called the cockerel? you leave something there, I’ll come visit. I’ll keep an eye.”

They work out a token she can leave that won’t be removed or be in danger of falling off, then he gets up and when she gets up to see him out he embraces her and apologizes into her hair before ducking away and out, gone. 

***

Later, far later, when the queen tells her d’Artagnan commended her and recommended her, Constance thinks of Porthos saying he didn’t want her to be lonely; the queen seems to be the loneliest woman in Paris. Perhaps, Constance thinks, they can change that for each other.