Title: D'Artagnan is one sick puppy
Author: Rita Marx (2016)
Rating: K
Category: Uh, Humor? I hope.
Characters: Our favorite four Musketeers.
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it. Not making any $$$ off this.
Summary: D'Artagnan gets an upset tummy. But, it's a good thing... One shot.
Warning: Projectile vomiting.
AN: I blame this on the stomach bug that's going around the office.
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Porthos, for what seems the umpteenth time, twists in his saddle, looking, worrying about their youngest member. "I don' know, 'Mis, I think e's gettin' worse. E's gone from lettuce-green ta grass-green."
"If you are going to hurl, please give us the courtesy a warning," Athos politely requested. A worried crease appeared upon his brow as he side-stepped his horse away from his sick little brother.
"I told you not to eat that custard pie, D'Art. It tasted a bit off," Aramis said, shaking his head.
"Bu, 'e a' it," D'art whined as he leaned over the neck of his horse. He whimpered, again, while clutching at his stomach. He buried his face in the soft mane, trying to hide his grimace.
"Ah, but I have a cast iron stomach, whelp," Porthos proclaimed cheerily as he patted his belly. "Tis one o' tha advantages o' livin' in tha Court. Your stomach learns ta accept anythin' ya put in it."
Without warning, a small troop of bandits screeched as they dropped from the trees lining the trail through the forest. Even with D'Artagnan's feeble attempts to swing his sword, it really wasn't much of a fight. At three to one odds, the musketeers quickly dispatched the thieves.
However, one bandit got the drop on D'Artagnan, knocking him to the ground. The outlaw grabbed his hair and hauled him upright with a dagger to his throat. "MUSKETEERS! Cease now! Or thi' one gets tha privilege o' bleeding out."
Without warning, D'Artagnan grabbed the wrist of his captor, pushed it away and twisted to face him…. And immediately lost contents of his stomach that went hurling directly onto the bandit's throat. A splattering of thick, yellow goop slid slowly down his chest.
The bandit yelped and stumbled away, frantically swiping at the foul gunk. He tripped over his own feet and landed hard in the dirt.
D'Artagnan leaned over and threw a punch. The bandit fell backwards, unconscious.
"Well done, D'Artagnan," Athos nodded with approval. "That's one way to subdue your captors. I think that should go into the training manual."
Struggling to stay upright, D'Artagnan sat back on his heels. "You guys are nev' goin' to le' me live dis dow', are you?" he groaned, wiping the back of one hand across his lips.
"Of course not, puppy. How can we let you live it down – "
"—if ya can't keep it down."
D'Artagnan didn't even have time to glare at his brothers, as he quickly lurched forward.
Aramis and Porthos danced around each other as their youngest retched.