I missed writing, but I knew I wouldn't be able to keep up with writing a long story so here's a little one shot. I enjoyed writing it, and I hope you at least slightly enjoy reading xD.
Treville ran his hand over his face and sighed. So predictable.
Last night had been Porthos' self-designated birthday so naturally the inseparables (D'Artagnan included) had got out for a night of drinking and merriment. This morning one of the quartet was conspicuous by his absence.
"Alright. What happened?" Treville asked brusquely.
Athos looked over at Porthos, his face impassive. Porthos was simply staring ahead, perfectly to attention.
"We can explain - " Athos began.
"Let me guess." Treville interrupted. "He has been held up pursuing a criminal? He suddenly caught a terrible illness between now and when last I saw him? He rescued and drowning puppy and must attend to it? He accidentally knocked over a candle and set his eyebrows alight and now cannot be seen in public?"
"With respect, sir, the last one was true." Athos stated levelly.
Treville smiled despite himself. The other musketeers had begun to shuffle their feet on the floor and fiddle with their weapons.
"The rest of you are dismissed." Treville snapped, waving a hand vaguely. They gradually began to file away. "No, not you, D'Artagnan."
D'Artagnan simply shrugged as he turned back to join the conversation.
"I don't want any of your fantastical excuses this time." Treville stared at each one of them in turn, noting that Porthos had still not turned his gaze away from some arbitrary point in the sky.
They remained silent.
D'Artagnan suddenly cleared his throat. "Porthos uh... Porthos..."
Athos scowled at D'Artagnan who simply ignored him and continued.
"Porthos missed the melon." He said.
"He... what? You expect me to believe that?" Treville asked. He was outraged that they had the audacity to lie to him again. However, he couldn't help the sudden plunge his heart took into his stomach at the thought. Porthos had been oddly silent the whole morning but... No, it couldn't be. They would not be stood here themselves if that were the case.
"It's true." Porthos finally announced, still not looking in the direction of the others.
"Aramis is fine." Athos quickly elaborated. "Well, mostly fine."
"That brings up back to the question of just where the hell he is." Treville was getting tired of this, and knew there was more to the story that they were reluctant to tell him.
"Repaying a debt. We all believed it was preferable to prison."
"To pris – , I don't want to know any more. You're all dismissed. When you see Aramis tell him he's on stable duty for the week."
Athos inclined his head in a small nod, Porthos simply turned and left and D'Artagnan hurried after them.
Those four were going to be the death of him.
The previous night.
Aramis straightened the melon on his head with a smile and watched as Porthos drained the last of the bottle of wine. A few onlookers had gathered around, equally ready to see his head shot off as the melon, Aramis suspected,
Porthos lined up his shot with a grin. Athos stood beside him, looking almost bored.
Tension hung in the air in the seconds before Porthos pulled the trigger, the crowd anxious to see whether he would make the shot or not. Aramis had no such concerns – certain of what the outcome would be.
Porthos squeezed the trigger, and fired. Moments like this, people often recall the scene moving in slow motion but for everyone involved here it seemed over in a split second – leaving all parties confused as to what exactly had happened.
Aramis ducked, the melon fell, smashing against the ground, and the bullet embedded itself into the wood where Aramis' head had been moments before. The sound of glass smashing interrupted the stunned silence.
Porthos was shaking.
Aramis stood with a smile once again on his face, so that the flash of fear might have never been there at all, and raised his arms to show he was unharmed.
He walked towards the door slowly, placing a hand on Porthos' shoulder to guide him towards the exit.
"Hey!" A voice called, and Aramis turned. "I hope you were planning on paying for that."
-Now-
"I could've killed him, Athos."
"You didn't. All's well that ends well. Not a scratch on him"
"Yeah, Aramis is like a cat – he always lands on his feet. Metaphorically speaking." D'Artagnan concurred.
-The night before-
Once the door had closed, having waved off a slew of concerned inquiries, Aramis reached tentatively up to the back of his neck.
Pushing hair aside, he swiftly pulled out a blood-stained splinter of wood with a wince. He felt the wound left its wake with relief - it wouldn't need stitches.
All's well that ends well.