This story… (are you sitting down) … does not … (are you ready) … have any… (here comes the reveal) …injuries! Or angst! Or revenge! Or heart rendering memories from the past! Or sorrow! Aramis doesn't save anyone! D'Artagnan doesn't sacrifice himself for the good of his brothers! Athos doesn't get lost in his past! Porthos doesn't fight anyone to save his brothers! This isn't written in AU, first person for fun … (I did promise not to do that again).
So … (as you sit there scratching your head) … where does that leave us? What could this story possibly be about? It's about … well … nothing. It is … (I hope) … a nice, easy, pleasant, light read for the beginning of a new year. An agreeable diversion for a cold winter's night. Prepare a hot beverage, grab your blanket, snuggle into your favor chair and let yourself enjoy 26 minutes of light entertainment … (7817/300 wpm) … which might make you chuckle, but won't give you nightmares.
My beta and I decided to sub-title this 'Fireside Chats' so if inspiration strikes in the future, we can add to the series. As always, Mountain Cat, my wonderful beta, has made this a readable story. As you can see … (example – author's note in 'Not Yet Broken', where I reference the site of a famous crucifixion not a group of mounted soldiers…sigh) MC really makes all my tales more user friendly. And, of course, I don't own them.
An Unfortunate Incident.
Part One of the Fireside Chat Series.
"I should have stayed in the garrison," Aramis moaned as he shook his head sadly and stared at the rickety barn door, hanging at an angle, more than half off its hinges.
D'Artagnan peered across the meager fire at his brother-in-arms and raised an eyebrow. "Really? There was an option not to come on this mission? Silly me, but I thought when Captain Treville told us to do something, it was called an order and we had to obey."
"Gotta go with the pup on this one," Porthos agreed as he leaned against his saddle's frame and stretched out his long legs so his damp boots were closer to the crackling flames.
Aramis stared out the opening in the doorframe at the falling snow and involuntarily shivered. The white flakes were large, wet, and coming down fast and furiously. Add the howling wind to the mixture and you had a major class snowstorm, one that none of them had anticipated. He refocused his eyes on the fire trying to forget about the raging storm outside. "Has anyone ever tried? Simply told the Captain, 'I don't wish to go on this assignment?'"
Snorting, d'Artagnan brushed a few unidentifiable lumps out from under his blanket, which he had laid out on the mostly dirt floor. "Up until recently, I was trying to earn my commission, so I don't think it would have ever crossed my mind to say no. Pissing off the man you are trying to impress doesn't sound smart to me. And now that I have my commission, I'd rather like to keep it, thank you."
"You do realize," Aramis bluntly informed the Gascon, who was squirming on his bedroll trying to get comfortable, "it wasn't the Captain you needed to impress to obtain your commission."
"Oh, you mean technically it was the King," d'Artagnan answered as he finally settled his body on the ground and stretched his boots towards the fire.
"Technically, it was the King yes, but in reality, it was us," Aramis' hand swept through the frosty air to encompass Porthos and Athos, who was approaching the fire after having made a final check on their surroundings. "We were the ones you really had to impress. If we hadn't liked you," Aramis shook his head woefully, "you'd not be sitting here. Isn't that right, Athos?"
The fourth musketeer carefully lowered himself onto his blanket, on the chilly floor, with a bottle of wine in one hand and four cups in the other. Placing the cups on the edge of his blanket, he removed the cork from the bottle with his teeth, generously filled them, handed them round, placed the green wine bottle near the edge of the fire to warm, and then settled back against his own saddle. Picking up his hat from where he had left it, he placed it on his head as he announced, "Don't involve me in your philosophical, snow-bound, inane conversations."
Porthos and d'Artagnan gave their Lieutenant a quizzical look as they tried to decipher the meaning of his last utterance.
The swordsman took a large sip from his mug before he gave in to their non-verbal query. "Every time we unexpectedly get trapped somewhere, Aramis launches into these random, theoretical dissertations because he is bored and to drive me insane."
The fact that Aramis suddenly took an inordinate interest in the color of the wine in his mug, told his brothers Athos' proclamation held truth. However, Aramis was not one to be easily stopped so he launched the conversation off in a new direction. "What would your mother say, Athos, if she saw you uncork a bottle of wine with your teeth."
The marksman was not expecting to get an answer and was surprised when he did. It was only because the swordsman hoped if he answered this question, the marksman would leave him alone for a while. "That would have been more in my father's area of discipline. My father had a good palette for wine and always kept his fair share of excellent vintages in the cellar. If I removed the cork that way in front of high-ranking company, I would have been soundly beaten the next day. However, if I did it around his hunting companions, I would have been patted on the back and called one of the men."
As if to signal the end of his participation, Athos placed his mug aside for a moment and adjusted his scarf to keep the tendrils of cold air from getting through. When he was satisfied, he secured his hat firmly and low on his brow, then retrieved his wine mug. After taking a fortifying sip, he lowered his chin towards his chest, shielding his eyes and, none-to-subtly, shutting out his brothers.
Athos' strategy worked, as Aramis left him alone and headed off in a new direction to bother the rest of his brethren. "It is the start of a new year…"
"And already we are in trouble on our first mission," Porthos groused as he watched an errant snowflake, which had found its way through the cracks in the ceiling, land on the ground next to him.
"Trouble? We are not in trouble," Aramis contradicted as he swirled the wine in his new pewter mug, letting its fruity scent drift to his nostrils. Athos had acquired one for each of them as a Christmas gift. "We're not injured. We have shelter…"
Porthos gave quick snort. "Which has more holes in it than Athos' socks."
The swordsman raised his head and quirked an eyebrow at the streetfighter, but couldn't deny the claim. He had acquired many abilities growing up as he prepared to become a Comte, but sadly, given his current path in life, darning socks and cooking were not skills he had learned. In fact, he seemed unable to absorb these basic skills no matter how much instruction he received. He had ruined so many meals that his brothers, who liked to eat, simply forbade him to do anything more than cut an apple. Even slicing carrots once had led to the need for a bandage. And as for fixing holes in socks, his last attempt not only sewed the hole in the sock closed, but also somehow sewed the sock to his shirt. After that, he made a deal with Aramis, who was proficient at darning; he'd sharpen Aramis' weapons if the marksman would mend his clothing. It was a fair deal as Athos was incredibly skillful in honing a blade and Aramis' needlework, whether on cloth or flesh, was outstanding.
"…food, wine, and a fire." Aramis continued, ignoring Porthos' interruption. "No one is chasing us. The Captain will understand our tardiness is a result of the weather and not some inappropriate action on our part…"
"Oh, you mean like the time you knew a short cut, that nearly got us killed?" d'Artagnan sarcastically suggested, "As I recall, you argued with Athos, who gave in…"
"A weak moment, I later came to regret," Athos drily intoned as he lifted is head, refilled his mug with the warmed wine and drank.
D'Artagnan nodded in agreement with his mentor as he warmed to the subject. "Let me see if I recall your so-called short cut, Aramis. First, we rode through a swamp, which almost swallowed Porthos alive when he stopped to relieve himself and began to sink out of sight. It took the combined efforts of the three of us, ropes and the horses to get him out and by the time we were done, we were all drenched in mud, which later caused Treville to yell at us."
"Amongst other things," drawled he who was not participating, after which he sipped his wine once more.
"It didn't take all the horses to get me out, just one," Porthos corrected as he recalled the event in question. "And it was scary the way that mud kept trying to suck me in. I felt like I was being drawn down into the depths of hell."
A small smirk played about Aramis' mouth. "Especially awkward with your britches around your ankles."
Porthos threw the marksman a dirty look. "My pants were not around my ankles."
Aramis cocked his head to the side and gave his brother a dubious expression. "You did later complain you had mud…everywhere."
"Because I was buried up to my chest. It flowed down my pants!" The streetfighter grimaced as he remembered his mud caked body. "And it did get everywhere."
"Be that as it may, after we finally got Porthos free and made our way out of the swamp, we next came to the wide river," d'Artagnan continued with his narrative, "where the bridge collapsed."
"That can't be blamed on me," Aramis defended himself, as he pushed himself a bit more upright against his saddle. "How was I to know the bridge's foundations must have been weakened by a savage storm?"
"Savage storm? I don't think there was a storm. That bridge was, oh I don't know, 300 years old and in dubious condition. I can't believe anyone had passed over it in the last 100 years!" Porthos countered rather vehemently.
"I had! Passed over it. Only a few months before. It was completely safe." Aramis' declaration of safety was met with skepticism from his companions. "And things in the old days were built to last. Like churches and castles and bridges. Isn't that right, Athos?" The marksman glanced over at his friend who had lowered his chin towards his chest once more.
"Don't drag me into this," the swordsman warned again in his 'leave me the hell alone' voice, which drifted out from under the hat.
"And as I recall, it was I who got dumped into the river," Aramis declared with a touch of indignation.
"Yeah, because Fidget was smarter than you and refused to walk on that death trap." D'Artagnan shifted to face Porthos, "Horses are really quite smart when it comes to things like that. They seem to know when things aren't stable, or the ground unsuitable to pass. You notice that your Flip didn't walk into the swamp with you."
"He didn't have to piss."
"And if it had been Roger, he would have warned Athos," d'Artagnan added, to see if Athos would contribute to the discussion.
"Roger's a bloody genius." Porthos tacked on as he glanced over at Athos, who simply ignored them.
Aramis, no longer feeling he was the center of attention, refocused the conversation on his plight. "And I fell into that river, fully clothed and I caught an awful cold."
"You caught that cold from the wench in the tavern, whom you didn't have the good sense to leave alone."
"I thought," Aramis reminded Athos when he offered up his snarky recollection, "you didn't want to partake in our conversation."
The swordsman shrugged, pushed his hat back a little, and gave his brother a smug smirk, showing his bratty-streak that the usually somber Comte kept well hidden.
"And, as I recall," the Gascon added in an aggrieved tone, "I was the one forced to enter that river, which I might add was very cold, and haul you out from where you were tangled in that mess of branches."
"I can't swim well," Porthos piped up, explaining why he remained muddy, but dry on the river's bank.
"And I kept watch… for enemies," interposed the Comte, who wasn't going to partake in the conversation, except when he was.
"But, on the bright side, the river did wash the swamp mud from your clothes," Aramis pointed out to d'Artagnan with a wave of his hand, as if that made all things better. "Only Porthos and Athos got scolded by Treville for showing up in the Palace all muddy.
"Was the Captain's fault. He told us to go there immediately," Porthos muttered as he reached over and added some more wood to the fire. The wind was picking up in intensity, rattling the wooden sides of the old barn. However, they weren't going to knock their dilapidated shelter for it was still better than being outside in the storm's fury.
D'Artagnan wasn't buying into the marksman's so-called-blessing. "Yeah. I got to ride, wet, for the rest of the day, my leather pants chafing, well, in places that shouldn't be chafed."
"Didn't your mother always tell you to wear clean braies when you left the house?"
The glare the Gascon sent Aramis spoke volumes. "She also told me never to follow fools, yet look where I am."
Clutching a hand to his chest, over his heart, Aramis swooned. "I'm wounded. My feelings rubbed raw."
Another snicker arose from the streetfighter. "And so was the pup's arse." Twisting his torso to look out the half-shut barn door, his mood turning serious, Porthos pondered, "Wonder how long this snowstorm is going to last?"
"This time of year, it's hard to say." D'Artagnan, the ex-farmer, was somewhat experienced with reading weather and he offered up his forecast. "If I were to hazard a guess, I'd say it will be over by morning. It blew up quickly and I think it will end the same way. These types of storms, this time of year, typically do."
Putting his back to the door once more as if to block out the storm, Porthos announced, "I'm hungry. What's everyone got in their bags?" The streetfighters' stomach let out a groan, which d'Artagnan's echoed, causing Aramis to stare at them fondly before turning to face Athos.
"And will your stomach be weighing in?" he queried the swordsman, who simply raised his wine glass in reply before drinking from it.
"As our group's resident medic, I have to tell you that drinking on an empty stomach is not a good idea," Aramis informed his brother as he rose to his knees to dig through his saddlebags for food.
"Since my stomach did not growl, we must conclude it is not empty," Athos replied, though he did rifle through his own bags to see what was left in them in the way of supplies. He added a few apples and a good size wedge of his favorite cheese to the growing pile of food by the edge of the fire.
D'Artagnan started arranging their supplies into a meal, slicing the apples and cheese, while Porthos took the dried meat and shoved it in the stale rolls. Porthos handed around his meat rolls, though Athos refused the one offered to him.
However, Aramis made sure the swordsman accepted the apple slices and cheese he was passing out. "Don't worry, Athos. D'Artagnan already cut them so your fingers are safe." Athos' glare spoke volumes about what he thought of Aramis' little jest.
After they finished their meal and took care of business in the chilly, snow-covered landscape, the four resettled around the fire, wrapping their blankets tightly about themselves to ward off the drafts of cold air.
"So, as I was saying before, it is the start of a new year, which may or may not be off to a bright start depending on your point of view," Aramis hurriedly stated, to forestall his conversation getting derailed once more. "And at this junction in time, it is customary to offer up resolutions, things you wish to improve upon in the coming year."
Silence settled over the ramshackle barn with the only sounds being the snap and crackle of the fire and wind whistling through the eaves.
"Surely you gentlemen can't believe you are so perfect as not to need to improvement," Aramis cajoled his brothers, "For if that is what holds you silent, let me be the first to tell you to reconsider."
"What are you going to change?" Porthos demanded of the marksman. "I can think of a lot of areas in which you need improvement."
Aramis thought for a moment, then vigorously nodded his head. "Yes, you are right."
"See," Porthos smirked as he threw a goading look toward d'Artagnan. "I'm right. He does have flaws."
"Flaws is such a harsh word. I suppose I might have one or two areas that could use a slight improvement. But," the marksman marched onward, not letting Porthos edge in with a sarcastic comment, "you are right about how to go about this. Each one of us shall offer up a helpful suggestion for how the other can improve."
"Go to sleep," came an unsolicited suggestion from under the hat, which had been drawn down low once more.
Ignoring the free advice, Aramis targeted d'Artagnan. "So d'Artagnan, as our newest member, you should go first. What bad or annoying habits do we have that you think we should strive to improve upon? No worries, no one will take what you suggest and hold it against you."
"Picking on me all the time?" the newest Musketeer cynically challenged. "It's always 'd'Artagnan, the new guy, should go first'."
Aramis traded a knowing look with Porthos then they looked over at Athos who was studiously ignoring them. "My dear boy," Aramis crooned in a manner that suggested d'Artagnan was being unreasonable. "You have known us the least amount of time. We have," he waved his hand at Porthos and Athos, "grown accustom to each other's idiosyncrasies so that we may not even recognize them anymore. For example, Porthos has the most annoying habit of eating the last of the food without checking if someone else might still have been hungry."
The streetfighter, who had just finished the last apple, looked up guiltily. "Yeah, sorry about that."
Aramis reached over and understandingly patted Porthos' knee. "No harm done. We know you do it and we accept it as part of who you are. Not saying, of course, that you couldn't try to remember to ask once in a while to see if anyone else would like the last apple. But we fully understand, given your background, that might be a very hard resolution to make."
Porthos nodded his head. "In the Court if Miracles, you had to grab before it was gone."
"Understandable. I would no more expect you to be able to change that habit than I would expect Mr. Sunshine over there to be civil in the morning."
"Go to hell."
"Or apparently, any other time of day either," Aramis amended with a flourish. "But we love our moody Athos just the same and wouldn't importune him to change."
"If you reach over here and pat my knee, you will be requiring medical assistance shortly thereafter."
The hand that had been moving that way, abruptly changed direction to push an errant lock of hair from his own forehead, before the marksman refocused his attention on d'Artagnan. "So. Do tell. What should Porthos strive to improve upon this new year?"
The Gascon and the streetfighter eyed each other, one visibly nervous and the other challenging. D'Artagnan's Adam's apple nervously bobbed up and down as if it were floating in a bucket of water.
"Ah, well, ah…" d'Artagnan stalled trying to think of something that wouldn't get the not always so gentle giant angry at him. "He could teach us all how to pick pockets. It seems like a very useful skill for us to learn."
"Athos already demonstrated that talent on the Dieppe mission," Porthos blurted out without thought, then shuddered as he glanced over at Athos who also flinched at the memory.
One of those mind reading looks passed between the streetfighter and the marksman. That didn't go unnoticed by d'Artagnan, though, wisely, he did not pursue it.
Aramis unhappily shook his head. "While that is certainly an interesting idea, you are failing to grasp the meaning of this exercise. It is not looking for ways that Porthos can improve us, but it is examining ways for Porthos to improve himself."
The Gascon wasn't stupid and he knew exactly what was expected of him, but he didn't want to suggest something that riled his brothers, even though they, or at least one of them, said they wouldn't hold it against him. The sound of the fire and wind grew loud once more as d'Artagnan desperately racked his brain for a harmless resolution to suggest. Finally, he came across an idea that he thought might do the trick, not upset Porthos, and hopefully get Aramis off his back.
"Ok, Porthos. Here is a new year's resolution for you. Flip's hooves. I noticed he has a deeper indentation in his left hind hoof, near where the frog meets the side wall. It would be a great idea, and good for Flip's hoof health, if you checked that area more often and cleaned it out. A stone wedged in there, even a small pebble, would be very uncomfortable. Don't get me wrong, I know you clean his hooves out often, but he could use a little more care than say Fidget, Zad, or Roger. I only noticed because I was raised around a lot of livestock. I have seen things like that before, that someone who is…ah…less familiar with the equine foot might overlook."
D'Artagnan held his breath to see how the streetfighter would react to his resolution. When the big guy smiled slowly, he let out his breath in relief.
"Thanks for that suggestion. I don't want him suffering for my neglect. He and I have a lot of good history together and I don't wish to treat him cruelly."
"Not cruel, because if he had something really annoying in it, he'd limp to let you know. You're just making it extra comfortable for him," d'Artagnan hastened to assure the Musketeer who appeared doleful that he might have been neglecting his four-footed friend.
"Excellent start. Now another," Aramis directed commandingly, as he leaned into his saddle and folded his arms across his chest.
"Another?" the farmer swallowed hard, cursing in his mind that he hadn't been let off the hook. "Surely we don't wish to overload Porthos. I mean you and Athos still have to give him your resolutions," d'Artagnan pointed out, glancing over at his mentor, even though he knew he'd get no help from that quarter.
At some point, when no one was looking, and probably because he had to scout about to find the bottle of wine to refill his glass, Athos had taken off his hat and his face was now visible. The green eyes that could change shades depending on the surroundings and his mood, stared at d'Artagnan coolly with a touch of amusement, though they offered no help. A slight head cock was all that indicated the Comte was interested to see where the Gascon would go next.
Feeling the pressure mounting to come up with another benign resolution, the young musketeer choked under the stare of the three sets of eyes and blurted out, "You snore!" which earned him a rousing round of laughter by his brethren and caused him to flush. "Well, it's true," he muttered mostly to himself, but the others heard too.
"It is a true statement," Porthos conceded, wiping the back of his hand over his watering eyes. "I do snore and I won't deny it."
"You do at that," Aramis concurred between fits of chortles. "Do you remember that time, Christmas Eve, in church, you dozed off and started snoring."
Grimacing Porthos demanded, "Don't remind me. That was embarrassing, to wake and find all those people starin' at me."
Holding his hand in front of his heart, Aramis swore, "I did try to rouse you as quickly as possible, to which you responded, loudly, with the rather unfortunate choice of words of 'leave me the hell alone, damn it. I'm tired and I feel like shit'."
"You said that in church?" d'Artagnan feigned shock, though he was still grinning from ear to ear.
Porthos looked abashed as he grumbled, "I told Aramis it was dumb to go to church after we had just gotten back from that mission. We were tired, we were hungry, and we were none to clean!"
Aramis, who was having none of it, reminded him, "It was Christmas Eve. The night of the birth of our Savior. Besides, you both lost the bet."
Athos, who had been dragged along to said Midnight Mass, picked up the tale. "The church was full for the holiday. The Comte and Comtesse de Mayenne, who had made the regrettable choice of sitting in front of us, were rather shocked by Porthos' somewhat loud snoring. And when he made his unholy proclamation, the Comtesse gasped, clutched her throat, and promptly fainted."
Aramis continued the holiday disaster. "The Comtesse, who was, how shall we put this politely, of unusual girth…"
"I've seen smaller draft horses, I have," Porthos commented, shaking his head with disbelief.
"…collapsed upon her more diminutive husband, knocking him off the pew and into the aisle of the church. When the Comte landed, he let out a most abnormally high-pitched squeal…"
"Like that of a stuck pig."
"… and naturally, all the eyes in the church, including those of the Priest conducting the services, came to rest upon the fallen Comte as he lay in the church's aisle way."
"Regrettably," Athos added wryly, "Cardinal Richelieu and Captain Treville were amongst the dignitaries attending this solemn Mass and were seated as to have a good view of the unfortunate proceedings. Though we tried our best to make a quiet exit, in the end, we did not go unnoticed."
"Well I couldn't just leave the poor Comte lying there, like a fish gasping for air, on the ground, could I? I felt I should at least help him back to his seat," Porthos rationalized as he fiddled with a button on his doublet.
"And it was the proper thing to do to ensure the Comtesse had not injured her person when she swooned," Aramis tagged on.
"And," Aramis accused, swinging round to face Athos, "you were not blameless, my dear Comte. You had snuck a bottle of wine into the church under your jacket and had been steadily drinking it throughout the Mass. You were somewhat less than steady on your feet. I believe it was said bottle, that, as we tried to sneak down the aisle, fell out of your jacket and you tripped over it. Then we had a reenactment of the Comte and Comtesse's fall with me playing the role of the Comte and Porthos the Comtesse."
"Are you saying I'm fat!" Porthos rumbled, his brown eyes flashing a warning at the marksman.
"No, of course not. But since you are closer to her size than I, I naturally assigned you that role in my analogy."
"I think, when she fell, she bounced, a few times," Porthos uncharitably recalled, trying, without much luck, to stifle his chuckles.
"So by the time we were able to depart the premises, we had been…identified." Athos raised his mug and drained some more of the contents. "Our encounter with the Captain the next day was rather uncomfortable."
If you had asked Captain Treville what he would be doing, first thing Christmas morning, he was pretty sure being chastised by the Cardinal would not have been on his list…well, maybe not.
"Disgrace, Treville. Absolute disgrace. And what if the King had been there?" Cardinal Richelieu demanded as he got in Treville's personal space.
"My Musketeers would have been on guard duty, not in the congregation, and this couldn't have occurred." Treville tried not to take a step backwards, but the Cardinal's wrath was almost palpable.
"So the behavior of your uncivilized Musketeers is the King's fault because he was home, sick in bed?" With a sad shake of his head, the Prelate turned and walked over to the window in the room overlooking the palace's barren winter garden.
Captain Treville stared at the Prelate's red caped back, hands clenched at his side. "You twist my words, Cardinal. But I won't deny their behavior was most undignified."
The Cardinal stroked his beard with concentration as he mulled over the incident. "Undignified is a word, though I'm not sure the correct one given the situation. Can you imagine the King's reaction when that cow of a Comtesse and her toady husband dine with their Majesties today and relate their charming tale of the Midnight Mass they attended?"
"It sounds as if you don't care much for them," the Captain observed, trying to keep the smirk off his face and out of his voice. The Comte and Comtesse were not the most popular of the nobility, though for some reason, the King had recently taken a shine to them. His Majesty must want something from them, though Treville had no idea what that could possibly be.
"A good number of France's nobility have, how shall I say this delicately, inbred once too often, especially those from the outer Provinces. However, that doesn't mean that I want his Majesty's, supposedly, elite guards rolling them down a church aisle during Mass."
"I can assure your Eminence it will never happen again and those involved will be suitably punished."
"Yes, yes, of course they will. Run along now, Treville. I need to go explain this incident to his Majesty."
"Shall I come along?" the Captain inquired. He hoped to be able to tell his side, what little there was to tell, for he knew the Cardinal would paint the Musketeers in the worse light possible. Not that there was much of a way to make this incident seem anything but stupid.
"No, you have done quite enough." The man-of-the cloth turned, started to stride away, then halted for a second. "And Treville, make sure those three are not on any Palace duty until the Comte and Comtesse have departed. Wouldn't want to take a chance on another unfortunate incident."
The time for muster had passed when Treville returned to the garrison and, since it was Christmas, he had cut the men some slack. He had given those that had to be on duty today their assignments the night before, after their evening meal. All the married men were off, many others too, though the Musketeers still had to guard the garrison's gate, the palace and have some presence about the town. But in the spirt of the holiday, he tried to let as many be with their family and friends and have a day of rest, as possible. He knew the three Inseparables were off, as they had just returned from a two-week mission, battered, exhausted and in no condition to be in public, as their little adventure at Mass proved. However, the incident at the church had to be addressed immediately.
Handing his horse off to one of the stable lads, he went to each of their rooms, banged on their doors and literally sent them to his office in whatever state in which they appeared. It was clear they had all been celebrating the previous evening after the church debacle and they had all been sound asleep when he rudely pounded on their doors. Once they were all in his office, he had them line up in front of his desk.
Porthos was in his nightshirt that luckily hung to his knees for the Captain was sure that was all the man had on. His tight curls were flattened on one side of his head and dried drool adorned his left cheek.
Aramis was only in his braies and was sporting some suspicious looking scratches on his chest and right cheek which did not look like the work of a bandit, but more that of a lady of the night. His wavy curls were wild and sticking out at angles that were almost physically impossible. And something akin to lipstick was smeared on his ear lobe.
The third piece of the triad looked the most miserable and was also the most dressed, still in his pants and boots, sans shirt, but wearing the omnipresent scarf. His hair was plastered to his head, though not by his usual bucket of ice water for Treville hadn't allowed him that relief. However, the Captain now wondered if that had been a wise move as Athos was swaying from side to side and turning somewhat green about the gills. Using his boot, the Captain slid the trash bucket closer to the man.
"What do you three have to say for yourself?" he demanded as his blue eyes angrily swept across them.
"Merry Christmas?" Porthos ventured forth, sticking a toe in the angry river that was Treville.
"Happy Christmas?" Aramis tried instead when the Captain's frown only deepened. "Some people prefer 'Happy' to 'Merry,'" he explained as an aside to Porthos.
Athos, who was fighting a losing battle, scooped the bucket off the floor and without permission, bolted from the lineup and out of Treville's office. There was no mistaking what was occurring on the Captain's porch even though the door was closed. Treville simply shut his eyes and allowed himself to lean back against his desk until the door hesitatingly opened, closed and Athos rejoined the line.
"I'll bring your bucket back…later," he simply stated as the Captain opened his eyes and glanced at him.
"Are you drunk?" Treville asked as he pushed off his desk and moved to stand in front of the Musketeer, who still was occasionally swaying.
Athos gave that question due consideration. If he recalled correctly, they had gotten back from the aborted Midnight Mass about 12:30, headed to his rooms and proceeded to drink their way through his better wine stock. Around 2:00 am, Aramis had declared he was in need of a Christmas present and knew a nice lady who could deliver, even at this time of night. Aramis had gathered his hat, swiped a bottle of Athos' red wine, claiming it was his Christmas present, and wandered out into the night to find his lady friend. After a few hands of cards, Porthos had fallen asleep on Athos' floor, leaving Athos to drink alone to the accompaniment of the streetfighter's snores. About 7:00 am, having run out of wine and cursing Aramis for taking a bottle, Athos had woken Porthos and kicked him out; no easy feat considering how drunk he was and how dopy Porthos was in his sleep deprived state.
"What time is it now?" Athos inquired, needing that last bit of data before he could reasonably answer the Captain's question.
"A little past 9:00."
The swordsman digested that piece of information, then declared, "Given the time I stopped drinking and the current hour, I believe I am still in the drunk, not hung-over, phase. But," he urgently stated, "as we…I… am not on the duty roster today I have kept my vow to you to not show up for duty drunk."
The statement would have been more impressive if the earth hadn't lurched underneath him and he found himself depending on Aramis to stay upright.
Treville shook his head, walked behind his desk, and dropped heavily into his chair. "Would it even do any good to yell at you three now?"
Athos, who was feeling particularly loquacious this morning, answered what was probably a rhetorical question by the Captain. "It depends on your goal. If your aim is to make us suffer, as no doubt we have somehow made you suffer, then yelling at us now, in a loud voice, would be most memorable as well as painful. At least speaking for myself."
Athos glanced at Aramis, who was still holding his arm and then around him to Porthos and both men gave little nods of agreement.
"However," the drunken Musketeer went on with a little slur. "If your goal is for us to remember your lecture, past the time it takes you to tell us, I fear now would not be a good time."
Again, he got the nodding concurrence of his brothers.
Treville simply couldn't help himself. "Why," he started out, trying to keep his tone low and even, and failing miserably by the end of his statement, "were you in that church, in such a state and what the hell happened!"
"We were worshipping our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, and celebrating His most holy birth." Aramis saw Treville's skeptical frown. "Well, I was worshipping. He was drinking," he tilted his head to the left, "and he was sleeping," he concluded with a nod to the right.
"Why on earth did you bring them? I understand you being in a church, maybe even Porthos, but I'm surprised lightening didn't strike him," he gestured towards Athos, who was still leaning on the marksman as he intently scrutinizing the floor, "when he crossed the threshold."
"My God isn't vengeful and is willing to forgive and forget, even him," Aramis announced piously.
"I don't want your God's forgiveness. I belong in the depths of hell with Mephistopheles, Tomas de Torquemada, Vlad Tepes, Ivan the Terrible, Genghis Khan and Gilles de Rais, who was a French nobleman by the way."
"Educated show off," Porthos groused at his brother. "We got your meaning after the first one."
Athos peered around Aramis to stare at Porthos from under his mop of hair. "You know who Mephistopheles is?"
"Considering how many times you have told me, when you were drunk, that you belong in hell with the devil, it wasn't too hard to figure out," the streetfighter confessed.
"I repeat myself." Athos then let go of Aramis and stood on his own once more.
"So you took them, drunk and tired, to church with you to redeem their souls," the Captain summed up as he peered at Aramis.
"And because we lost the stupid bet. I know I'm formidable with a sword…"
"The best," Porthos loyally affirmed the swordsman's statement.
"...but I had no idea that Aramis could shoot that damn well blind-folded." Athos shook his head, instantly regretting the move and turning slightly green again.
Treville's eyes focused on Aramis. "Do I want to know what this bet was about?" he asked grimly.
"Probably not, Captain. Just suffice it to say they lost, so they had to come to the midnight service with me." The marksman paused for a moment of reflection. "Which, when looking back upon it, perhaps, was not a good idea when Porthos was so tired and Athos was intoxicated."
"You knew Athos was drinking before you dragged him into that church?" Treville asked with disbelief.
"When isn't he drinking, Captain?" Aramis parried jokingly.
Athos raised his head to defend his honor. "Never drunk on duty."
"But always a little marinated?" Aramis teased good-naturedly even though he knew Athos took his role as a Musketeer very seriously. No one personified duty and honor more than the swordsman, most of the time.
"Gentlemen, and I use that term lightly, we have digressed. I am supposed to be dressing you down for that disgraceful display in the church that was an affront to his Majesty and the rest of the regiment."
"Damn," Athos swore in the low growl that he was so good at doing.
"The King was there?" Aramis asked as he glanced over at Porthos with concern.
"Fortuitously, his Majesty and the Queen were home, ill. Had they been in attendance they would have been even more ill after your shenanigans. However, the Cardinal was there so don't worry, his Majesty will hear exactly what his elite guard was up to in a house of God." Treville wearily dragged a hand over his face. "And did I neglect to mention that the Comte and Comtesse de Mayenne are dining with the King today?"
"I hope they have a lot of food planned," Porthos muttered. Suddenly Porthos, who probably still was somewhat under the influence himself, snickered, then started to chuckle. Aramis looked over at his laughing brother, had no idea why he was laughing, but got caught up in the infectiousness of it all and started laughing too.
Athos glanced between his giggling brothers and his Captain, sitting behind his desk.
"Why are they laughing, Athos?" the beleaguered Captain asked as Aramis and Porthos continued to crack each other up.
Drawing himself up straight and strong like the Comte he was born, Athos haughtily answered, "I have absolutely no idea what has tickled their infantile brains, Sir."
"She…she bounced," Porthos got out between laughs.
Athos focused on his chortling brethren for a moment before flatly saying, "Oh." Turning back to face his commander, he stated, "I must revise my previous statement for it was…inaccurate." Athos glanced sideways at the two musketeers who were laughing so hard they had to hold each other up.
"Squish him."
"Roll over on him in the middle of the night."
"Like a ball."
"I believe they are referring to the fact that the Comtesse de Mayenne is…" Athos faltered trying to find the right word. "And that the Comte is…" But that direction didn't help either. "That they…as a couple are…unevenly matched."
Then, something Treville swore he'd never seen before, occurred. The right corner of Athos' lip curled upwards, followed by the left. Then, a sound burst forth from the stoic man's throat that the Captain knew he never heard before. Laughter. Yes, alcohol fueled, but laughter none the less.
"She bounced. When she hit the floor. The Comtesse swooned, bounced on the floor and knocked her skinny-assed husband right out of the pew."
Athos' unexpected outburst set the other two musketeers off once more and the only person in the room, not laughing was Treville, who sat behind his desk wondering where he went wrong in life to be punished so. Suddenly, Athos grabbed his middle and sprinted for the Captain's door, opened it and ran outside slamming it behind him. The sound of the bucket being used was heard once more.
Treville tried to wait patiently for Athos to return and for the two hyenas, still cackling in front of his desk, to cease. When Athos didn't return, the Captain grew concerned, rose from his chair and went out onto his porch. In the corner, on the wooden planks, being held up by the wall, sat Athos, his head bowed to his chest. At the sound of footsteps, he painfully squinted upwards until he could see who was standing in front of him.
"Captain. Have I ever told you my theory on herding cats?" the semi-drunken man asked his commander.
"Athos. Go back to your quarters. Sleep it off. We'll talk more about this when you all are sober and coherent. Porthos, Aramis, make sure he gets to his room and for the love of God, don't let him drink anything more."
"Can't. Gone. Aramis took my last bottle," Athos moaned as he dropped his head to his chest before listing a little sideways.
Porthos got on one side and Aramis the other, and hauled him to his feet. They looked at the used bucket, then Treville.
"Go on. I'll have someone take care of that later. I expect to see you at Christmas dinner this evening. Serge has worked very hard to make it a very special meal. He'll be disappointed if all of his men don't show up. Even you three."
"We're his favorites, I'm pretty sure," Aramis declared as they more or less dragged Athos down the stairs.
Treville watched until they were out of sight, then allowed himself a little grin of his own, one he didn't dare allow to escape earlier. Their description of the Comtesse's fall, while cruel, was accurate and amusing. He went back in his office and shut the door, already thinking about the worse tasks and missions he could assign these three.
"And so for the next several months, we got put on every crappy assignment there was," Porthos recalled shaking his head in disgust. "All because I let you," he poked his finger at Aramis' leg, "talk me into something I knew was stupid."
"All for one," d'Artagnan muttered under his breath, earning him a quirked eyebrow from Athos.
"So back to the point." Aramis sought to put the conversation back on its original course. "Snoring is not a valid new year's resolution because Porthos can't control the fact he does it while he is asleep. I suppose there are some things we could do to mitigate it..."
Suspiciously, the streetfighter narrowed his eyes as he glared at Aramis. "Like what? Gag me?" The tension in his jawline told explicitly what he thought of that idea.
"Heavens no. That would be cruel. I was thinking more along the lines of making you take the first watch, so we could all get to sleep before you start to snore. Also, I've heard that sleeping on a full stomach can contribute to snoring, so maybe you should eat smaller meals in the evenings."
Shaking his head vigorously, Porthos accused, "Now you're just making stuff up."
Athos broke into the conversation. "I think Aramis has made an excellent suggestion.''
Porthos' head swung around to glare at the swordsman. "About me eating less? Nah. That isn't a good suggestion at all."
"Of course it's not," Athos agreed with an exasperated sigh. "I meant the other one. About the watch."
Grabbing his blanket, which had slithered towards his feet, Athos began issuing commands. "Porthos. You have the first watch."
"In a barn?" Porthos griped. "In the middle of a snowstorm?" Athos simply gave him 'that look' and Porthos backed down, though he kept grumbling under his breath.
"Aramis, d'Artagnan, go to sleep. Enough with this delusional talk of new year resolutions. Resolutions never stick and are forgotten soon after they are uttered." With that, he drew the woolen blankets up to his ears, rolled on his side and curled into warm ball to sleep.
"We'll talk more later," Aramis whispered to d'Artagnan. "He's wrong you know. I once knew..."
"Gentlemen..." came the low growled warning from he who shall be obeyed.
"Tomorrow." Aramis promised the Gascon as he rolled on his side and obeyed his leader's orders and went to sleep. After all, Athos wasn't always right, except when he was.
THE END