Summary: "Duel," snorted Ballestra. "I've no intention of dueling." He cocked the pistol. "I will just shoot him."
"Do it," hissed Porthos, "and I will tear you apart."
Author's Notes: In the 1st episode, anybody notice how Porthos walked the whole line of the firing squad, watching to make sure they all stopped before he went to Athos?
Well, I did.
And thus, this little trilogy of snippets.
I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.
"Aramis!?" The shout rang through the bar. Aramis looked up and then quickly back down, but it didn't matter. He'd hoped that Monsieur Bellestra hadn't seen his face this afternoon when he'd so rudely interrupted Aramis and Madame Bellestra, but that seemed a futile hope as the man made his way directly toward the table where he and Porthos sat.
"Who's lookin'?" rumbled Porthos.
"The man with the gun," announced Ballestra. The room fell quiet, eager to watch the drama unfold. Ballestra held a pistol and it was aimed steadily at Aramis' head.
"You slept with my wife, you pig."
"Sir," said Aramis smoothly, raising his hands slowly. "I have no idea..."
"Don't even try to deny it. She told me everything."
"So what you proposin' to do?" asked Porthos as he leaned back slightly, hands loose and ready. "Dueling has been banned."
"Duel," snorted Ballestra. "I've no intention of dueling." He cocked the pistol. "I will just shoot him."
The air went out of the room.
"Do it," hissed Porthos, "and I will tear you apart."
Ballestra shifted his aim to Porthos and Aramis felt his heart stop. His own belts were too far away to reach without being seen.
"Perhaps I'll shoot you first."
"I'll still tear you apart."
"Really? Because I dare say you won't be a factor." said Ballestra.
"Nah. 'Cause here's what you don't know." His voice was amiable, but Porthos' smile was closer to a snarl. "I've been shot before and finished the fight. You shoot me, you don't shoot me. Don't matter. I'll end you."
Aramis felt the hairs on his neck stand up. Most times, Porthos was fire and bravado. He normally would have been playful. But right now, he seemed dispassionate. Colder than Aramis could ever remember seeing him.
"Best thing you can do, is walk out of here. Turn and leave and don't come back."
"I will have satisfaction."
"No. You won't." He gestured at Aramis. "Anythin' happens, his horse comes up lame, his roof gets a leak, he cuts himself shaving. Anythin'. And I'm coming to visit you first." Porthos smiled again and Aramis would have sworn the temperature dropped.
Ballestra looked around at the silent room. He buckled under the weight of those stares and quickly retreated out of the inn. Slowly, people returned to their dinner and drinking. Aramis shook his head with a wondering smile.
"That was quite impressive, Porthos."
"Did you do it?" Porthos' voice didn't change. It was as frozen as before. Aramis thought of a half dozen prevarications, but they all died before they reached his lips. He never wanted to lie to Porthos. And the look his friend was giving him made it impossible. He nodded mutely.
Porthos didn't react at first, just stared him down. And then he leaned forward, inches from Aramis' face.
"One day, Aramis, a jealous husband is goin' to catch up to you and shoot you like a dog. Know what that would do to me? Hmm? To Athos? Do you even think?" Guilt flared in his gut, but indignation spoke louder. Aramis had heard all this before.
"I won't change who I am."
"Oh, I know that," said Porthos sourly.
"I appreciate what you did tonight," said Aramis coolly. "But I do not need you to defend me from every cuckold."
"You don't get to decide."
"Who I sleep with?"
"Who I protect." The ice melted away, but there was no sun beneath it. Porthos just looked depleted. "I made a vow, Aramis. Long ago. To you. To Athos. And now to d'Artagnan. Do what you want. You may not care, but I will not break it."
All the fight flowed out of Aramis. He ran a hand through his hair.
"I'm sorry I make it so hard, Porthos. I do not mean to take advantage of your loyalty."
"I know," Porthos nodded, his eyes distant. "We can't change who we are."
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Athos didn't try to look down, but he knew what was there. A fast, but shallow river and a messy death. He couldn't see over the rise that led down to the edge of the cliff, but knew what was there. His friends battling the bandits who'd surprised them on the road.
He didn't precisely remember the blow that send him over the hill and nearly over the cliff, but it didn't matter. Athos tried to pull himself up again, but the stone beneath his hands crumbled and he scrambled for another hold.
"Athos!?" Porthos' voice boomed out over the sounds of clanging swords.
"Here," he yelled back, hoping that someone could hear him. Porthos appeared and slid down the rise slowly.
"Looks as though you could use a hand," smiled Porthos.
"No rush," muttered Athos tightly. "Take your time." The sounds of fighting had not ceased. "The others?"
"They're finishin' up now." Porthos inched forward on his stomach and firmly grasped Athos' wrists. As Athos let go with one hand to grip Porthos, the rock between them fell away. Athos gasped, swinging wildly from one arm. Porthos grunted and managed to capture Athos' other arm in his grip. Athos struggled for breath as he dangled below the edge and waited to see if his weight would pull them over, but they seemed to have stabilized.
"Porthos?"
"We're alright," he answered between gritted teeth. "Others'll be here soon." Athos tried to secure his grip, but his hands refused to obey him. The fingers wouldn't tighten, only weakly circled Porthos' wrists.
Athos listened for the sounds of their friends, but he couldn't hear anything over their harsh breathing. Time had slowed to something meaningless.
He could feel the tremors running through Porthos' arms, see the strain on his face that was building to pain. The weight was too much. How much easier would it be to just fall? End the guilt and the lies? Better to relinquish both their burdens.
"Porthos," he said carefully. "Let me go." If anything, the vise-like grip on his arms tightened.
"Shut up," growled Porthos.
"You cannot pull us up. There is no reason for us both to die here. Let go."
"Nobody's dyin'."
"Porthos..." The big man looked down at him, face taut and fierce.
"I said, shut up."
It could have been seconds, probably not the hours it felt like, when Athos heard d'Artagnan's voice.
"Porthos? Where's Athos?"
"Here," he called. "Grab Porthos and pull us up!"
Porthos grimaced as he was quickly pulled backwards, but his hands never wavered. As soon as Athos broke over the edge of the cliff, Aramis was there to help him all the way up, dragging him away from the edge.
Athos lay on his back and looked up at the perfect, blue sky and just breathed. In seconds the sky was darkened as though by a storm as Porthos grabbed the front of his coat and hauled him to his feet.
"Do not do that." Porthos' voice was low and grave. "Don't tell me to let you go."
Athos stared at Porthos, a laconic response ready, but he held back. Porthos was angry, yes, but beneath all of that was fear. He had made the regiment his home and he protected his compatriots tirelessly because they truly were his family. Perhaps some other soldier would have seen the wisdom in releasing Athos to the river, but Porthos never would. It was an insult to everything he believed of himself.
And Athos should have known better.
"You may be ready to die, but I will never give up on you." Porthos shook him slightly, as if to drive his words. "Never," he whispered, voice cracking. Athos leaned in, resting his head against Porthos'.
"It was not you I doubted, Porthos. Not ever you." Porthos' eyes slammed shut, his breath brushed Athos' face. He reached up and wrapped his weak hands around Porthos' fists, still tight around his collar. "Forgive me." When he opened them, Porthos' eyes were unspeakably sad. He sniffed and gently pushed Athos away. He turned and stumbled up the hill, leaving Athos with a stunned d'Artagnan and a riled Aramis.
"What did you do?" asked Aramis. It didn't sound like an accusation, but Athos had known Aramis a long time.
"I made a mistake," answered Athos calmly. "I will not do so again."
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
D'Artagnan wrenched at the ropes holding him to the post, but there was still no give. Porthos stood in front of him, demanding the Red Guards lower their weapons. Athos bellowed about the order of the King. Aramis grabbed the nearest musket and pulled it away. Everyone was shouting.
A single gunshot cracked through the air.
In one motion, Porthos turned and wrapped his arms around d'Artagnan, tucking his head under his chin. D'Artagnan gasped for breath as the noise intensified, more cries as more Musketeers filled the space, the ringing of swords, the clash of bodies, fire of pistols. Porthos held him close, protecting him from the fighting he could only hear. Part of him wanted to tell Porthos to defend himself. How could he just turn his back to the battle? And the rest of him desperately pressed his face into Porthos' throat, inexplicably comforted by the strong fingers in his hair.
When the sounds of fight died away, d'Artagnan felt Porthos looking around. When Porthos relaxed and drew back, d'Artagnan was certain that if not for the ropes binding in him up, he would have fallen. Porthos pulled his main gauche and cut them away. D'Artagnan shook off the restraints and looked at the taller man, trembling. This big-hearted, stupidly brave man, who by some miracle, looked unharmed.
"Porthos," he choked, launching himself back into the Musketeer's arms. "Porthos, you..."
"Hush now," murmured Porthos, a soothing rumble against his chest. "Hush, we're alright." He held d'Artagnan tightly for a moment and then pulled back, raising his voice.
"You didn't think we'd forget about you?" He roughly palmed d'Artagnan's cheek and his warm eyes betrayed his playful words. "You looked a bit worried."
D'Artagnan swallowed hard, composed himself and managed an answering smile.
"You were late." Porthos laughed loudly, Athos smirked as he walked over, Aramis smiled and gripped his shoulder and the earth felt solid again.