I Need to Work on That
PLOT SUMMARY- Five times Porthos' cheating got our boys into trouble and the one time it ended up saving them all.
A/N: So I have been enjoying these Musketeer fanfics for almost three years now and finally mustered enough courage to post one of my own. A huge thanks to my beta Venea Taur for her beta reading. All remaining errors are mine.
WARNINGS: Just a bit of violence and language. Oh and English is not my first language.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Musketeers. If I did, there would have been at least ten more seasons, so curse your damn luck (and mine!)
CHAPTER ONE
There were reasons why the 'Sinner's Paradise' was a favorite haunt for the soldiers, especially the Red Guards and the Musketeers, despite the name that would make many a gentleman cringe and turn on their heels to look for a place with a more respectable bearing. Just a stone's throw from the Royal Palace, it was the ideal place for a Musketeer looking to spend his leisurely hours, as he would be close at hand should there be any unprecedented incident at the Palace demanding extra manpower. For every Musketeer knew that he was never truly off duty.
The Red Guards' reasons for frequenting the tavern were simpler and mostly mundane- the wine was cheaper, the cleaner dishes and the fact that it was the closest to their headquarters. A few, however, came specifically looking for trouble either because of boredom or frustration and the King's elite regiment of bodyguards, whose exploits now more often than not overshadowed theirs, always seemed like a convenient target to take out some heat. The Musketeers, never ones to back down from a fight, didn't mind making them learn the hard way as to why they were hailed as the superior regiment.
Tonight, however, few Musketeers could be seen in the tavern. The Red Guards, too, were not up to their usual strength even though they outnumbered the Musketeers.
"I win," the large Musketeer seated at one of the tables at the centre declared, a gleeful grin playing on his lips as he laid his cards on the table.
His opponent, a Red Guard who frankly looked more like a stable boy in uniform than a soldier, if the tangled straw in his hair and the terrible mucky smell of his clothes was anything to go by, laughed as if the big man had cracked a joke. The cheerful expression on his face, however, froze as one glance on the table told him a different tale and he took to staring intently at the cards, as if the greatest puzzle known to mankind was laid out before him. The man abruptly looked up at the Musketeer, his knitted eyebrows and bewildered expression presenting a picture of thorough confusion.
And then, realization dawned on him as the confused lines on his face relaxed, only to be replaced by those of anger.
"You bloody Musketeer!" the man exclaimed, spitting out the words. "You cheated!"
"Better watch out for what you say," the Musketeer, Porthos, warned in a mirthless tone, a menacing glint in his eyes. "Or you will come to regret it."
"It's you who will be regretting it, Musketeer," the Red Guard snapped, suddenly rising up.
"Oi, Gerard! What the 'ell are you shouting for?"
The commotion created by his opponent had managed to garner attention. Porthos turned around to see whom the voice belonged.
Four Red Guards stood directly behind him, their expressions not so friendly towards the Musketeer.
Porthos found himself silently groaning.
The commotion created by his opponent had managed to garner unwanted attention.
In his few days in the regiment, Porthos had hardly failed to miss the passionate animosity between the two groups of soldiers. In fact, it was one of the first things that he had noticed about his comrades- their intense dislike of the men wearing the red uniform.
Of course, the sentiment was returned with equal sincerity by the other party as well.
"This bloody bastard cheated!"
Porthos stood up, his savage look causing a part of Gerard's angry expression to turn into fear instead, as the smaller man looked towards his comrades.
"Well, but that's to be expected," the man who had spoken first and was clearly the leader of this small group, continued in a condescending tone. "He's a King's Musketeer, after all. Them lot has a strict code of honor. Of course he will go about swindling people."
"I won a fair game," the big man declared in his you-would-be-wise-not-to-argue voice. "Tell this to that rat over there."
"Rat?! You're calling me a rat?" the man shrieked, obviously not pleased that the Musketeer had compared him to that rodent. "Well, at least I'm not the one who's cheating people of their money."
"Prove it," the Musketeer bellowed.
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Porthos felt the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against the back of his neck.
"Well, there is only one way to know," their leader mocked from behind and Porthos could well imagine the sneering grin on his face. "We do just as he asks us to. So where shall we start from? The sleeves would be a fair guess perhaps."
Porthos knew he was in trouble now and that he needed to act fast. He kicked back the chair behind him, hoping that it would at least create some distraction. The chair connected painfully with the groin of the man holding him at gunpoint and he gasped in pain. The Musketeer used that moment to turn around and take hold of the man's wrist, twisting it viciously. That earned him a scream as the gun slipped from the Red Guard's fingers and dropped to the floor.
His relief was short lived though, as the others around him recovered from their initial surprise and one of the Guards, a guy almost as large as Porthos, lunged at the Musketeer and they both crashed onto the table behind, with Porthos' back unfortunately taking the worst of the fall.
They landed together on the floor, beside the mess of the upturned table. The Red Guard aimed a punch on Porthos' jaw that was quickly intercepted by the Musketeer's arm. Before he had the chance to reply with a blow of his own, a booted foot made painful contact with his side.
Porthos cursed loudly as he grappled with the opponent on his top. He caught hold of the man's throat, his fingers squeezing the skin underneath. However, a second vicious kick, this time on the arm made him lose his grip.
More kicks began showering mercilessly from different directions. He noticed a particular one aimed at his head and managed to grab the leg just before it hit its target. However, the Red Guard on his top chose that moment to right hook him.
Suddenly, the men who were busy raining kicks on him quickly began disappearing one by one and Porthos heard several thuds and yelps, in addition to the distinct sounds of a pair of feet hurrying its way towards the exit door.
The big Musketeer had no time to wonder about this apparent miracle as his opponent's fist flew in his direction again. This time, though, Porthos was prepared and grabbing hold of the arm, he gave it a sudden vicious twist and heard the satisfying crunch of bone against bone. The man howled in pain as he was greeted by Porthos' large fist that successfully knocked him out.
As Porthos pushed the unconscious weight off his body and sat up, panting heavily from his recent exertion, he noticed three other bodies lying, in various positions and states of consciousness, on the floor.
He was wondering about this sudden reversal of fortunes when a figure kneeled beside him, tapping a hand on his shoulder.
"Are you all right?"
Porthos turned his head to meet a pair of concerned brown orbs, on a young face, staring enquiringly at him. The big Musketeer blinked a few times as he tried to place the very familiar looking face and discovered that stars were still creeping into the periphery of his vision.
"Are you all right?" the young man repeated his question, waving a hand in front of Porthos.
"Um…yeah. I think so," Porthos replied unsure, still trying to assess the condition of his body when he noticed the pauldron on the other man's shoulder.
A Musketeer, then.
Ah, that explains it.
Well actually, that explained a lot of things.
"Can you stand up?"
Porthos responded to the enquiry by getting to his feet. It was obviously painful but not as bad as he had expected. His back though felt particularly sore and it wasn't a hard guess that it would soon be decorated by several lovely colored bruises.
It was then that he noticed the presence of another man, his blue eyes regarding him with a curious expression.
"Can you walk? Or do you need any help?" the first man asked him.
"Nah, I can manage. Just a few bruises. Nothing broken," Porthos replied truthfully. He wasn't the one to usually lie about his injuries. He had witnessed way too many seemingly innocent and thus ignored wounds turn fatal, both when he was in the Court and during his time in the infantry.
Still, the young Musketeer regarded him skeptically for a few moments, before looking satisfied, seeing that the big man indeed was fine for the most part.
"Thank your stars that Aramis was particularly whiny today in dragging me here with him," his companion spoke for the first time. "Or it would instead have been the Captain dragging us all out of our beds, early in the morning, to attend your funeral."
Aramis.
Of course, that's his name!
"Liar!" Aramis accused with a smile. "He is the one who pulled me here so that he could flirt with the pretty barmaid."
"'Pulled you'? So, you're telling me that you are not the least bit interested in the tavern owner's daughter," his friend smirked.
"It doesn't hurt to make a polite acquaintance. Besides, she is engaged."
"Even more reason for you to pursue her."
"Marsac, my friend, it wounds me to know that you hold such a poor opinion of me," Aramis said with a hand on his chest and voice laced with false hurt.
Aramis and Marsac.
Now that Porthos had finally recognized them, he wondered why he hadn't done so earlier. These two were always in the Garrison headlines for some spectacular reason or the other. From what he had heard, Porthos was amazed that Treville hadn't just kicked them out of his regiment already. Aramis had an uncanny charm about him though. That and the fact that he was rumored to have wizard-like abilities when it came to a firearm must be the reason why he had survived the Captain's wrath. Till now.
"So, tell me, mon ami." Aramis returned his attention to Porthos. "Why were you having such a jolly good time with those Red Guards? Pray tell me that you didn't attempt to correct one of their many illusions surrounding our great Cardinal. They fail to appreciate the good intentions behind such actions."
Aramis' tone was jesting but his inquiry produced a wave of uneasiness and an unexpected dilemma in Porthos. These men were his brothers-in-arms and theirs ought to be a bond of trust. Moreover, they had just saved him from a thrashing. Surely, the least they deserved was the truth from him.
But the big man had his doubts.
Would he be judged?
Would they think less of him?
What if they reported to the Captain and he is deemed unfit to be a Musketeer?
"We were having a game of cards. They thought that I was cheating," Porthos replied, sticking as close to the truth as possible. "Then one of them pointed his gun at me and things kind of escalated from there."
Porthos had the creeping suspicion that he didn't sound half as convincing as he had wanted to. At least that's what Marsac's funny expression told him. Aramis, however, readily accepted his answer and didn't look or sound skeptical at all.
"That's a group teeming with spoilsports. Cards or swords, they just don't know how to take defeat with some dignity."
"You're speaking as if you are the most modest person of this world," Marsac scoffed.
"There's no harm in acknowledging one's talents," his friend replied.
"By 'acknowledging', I'm sure that you mean 'bragging'."
"I never brag!"
"Except yesterday when you regaled that girl with anecdotes of your daring escapade from the Spanish bandits," Marsac countered.
"None of it was an exaggeration. It's all true, you know it."
"All but the fact that you ran for ten miles in the forest before losing the bandits. I caught up with you with our horses before you had barely covered two."
"Well, I left out the part where I had to save your pathetic behind when your horse, spooked by a bullet, threw you in the mud when those bandits caught up with us. You never complained about that little alteration," Aramis pointed out.
Marsac simply rolled his eyes.
"So, if we are quite done with our bickering, I suggest that we all head back to the Garrison. Our friend here could do with some rest after the little adventure he's had," Aramis smiled as he looked at Porthos, assessing his condition one last time.
Marsac headed out first, followed by his friend and then Porthos. Once they were out on the streets and Marsac was walking a little ahead, Aramis fell back, smiling as he reached Porthos a couple of steps behind him. He put an arm around Porthos' shoulder, the big man a little surprised and more than a little confused at the gesture.
As they continued with their walk, the young Musketeer said to Porthos, "Do get yourself checked by the physician once we reach the Garrison, mon ami. Bruises can be an annoying nuisance. You can request the Captain not to put you in the training yard tomorrow."
Porthos didn't fancy himself having to explain to the Captain, or anyone for that matter, about the manner of gaining those injuries.
"It's just bruises. I've had much worse," the large Musketeer said. It wasn't untrue.
"Sure enough, you are lucky to have escaped with just some bruises, but it won't do any good if you aggravate your sore skin. Besides," Aramis continued and there was a mischievous glint in the dark eyes, accompanied with a knowing tone to his voice, "it's not like Treville is going to check your sleeves, holding you at gunpoint."
Porthos froze in his tracks. How much did the man know?
He opened his mouth to speak but the younger man beat him to it.
"Next time, please choose a place which is not infested with Red Guards before deciding to show off your card skills. Not every day can a couple of your comrades accidentally come to your rescue, can they?"
It was at that moment that Porthos noticed. There was no judgment in those eyes, nor any trace of condescension in his voice. In fact, the big man could detect just the slightest hint of pleading camouflaged in the cheerfully jesting tone.
Porthos looked Aramis straight in the eyes. The smile on his face roguish but neither was it lacking in its friendliness.
And just like that, Porthos knew it. He knew that this was a man he could trust his back with.
"Come on now, what are you waiting for?" Marsac called out from ahead.
"Marsac, my friend, I am grateful for your fountain of patience. Just give us a moment," Aramis answered. He returned his gaze to Porthos.
"Please." The plea was more pronounced this time. Porthos realized that he strangely didn't have the heart to disappoint this earnest young Musketeer. He quickly put it down to the gratitude that he was still feeling.
He nodded. If it would please the young man, then he was willing to take the risk. He would face Treville.
But perhaps not with the entire truth.
Aramis' smile brightened at his acquiescence and Porthos found himself reflecting the action.
After all, it did warm a part of him to see this man, an almost stranger, fuss so much about his well-being.
"If you are quite done with your flirting, Aramis, may we continue on our way?" Marsac's drawl could be heard.
Aramis chuckled as he and Porthos resumed their walk. "Don't mind him. He's just jealous that while he seeks the attention of all the lovely ladies, it's the lovely ladies who seek my attention," the Musketeer winked.
The large man wasn't too surprised.
"Sadly, even though we have jumped to the flirting part, I still don't know your name. I'm Aramis. The personification of patience walking ahead is Marsac."
"Porthos du Vallon." The words came easier than it should have towards an almost stranger, the big man realized.
"A pleasure to meet you, Porthos."
The feeling was mutual, Porthos thought.
A/N: I hope you liked it. Please leave your thoughts!