A/N—Disclaimer: I don't own this. The Three Musketeers belongs to Alexandre Dumas.
Note: It's occurred to me while writing this story that in the begninning at least it bears a lot of similarity to one of my other fanfictions (for a different fandom.) For those who have read some of my other pieces, I assure you that this piece is taking an entirely different angle.
Summary: Patrol for Porthos ends with a mugging over mistaken wealth and a young Italian who can't understand a word of French. ***How Aramis becomes a member of the Insperables.*** Rated T for descriptive imagery and possible triggers.*** Please read/review!
Inseperable
The nights in Paris were growing worse.
The drinks that the hostelries and bars served remained the same, as did the food: cheap and low quality. The men who came pouring in as soon as the clock struck the end of business hours were also the same. No one new showed up, no one old left. Yet the nights went from simple tavern brawls and bar fights to muders and worse crimes. The regular drunkards became criminals who slipped poison in fellow drinkers' mugs and harrassed the barmaids that they'd only teased before.
The king assigned the Musketeers to twenty-four hour patrol duty when the crimes began to spread from the buildings to the streets. While out of the bars the crimes were much more mild—muggings and theft—the king took much more affront to these than to the happenings of the hostelries. The inns and taverns were the business of those who ran them. The streets were the business of the king.
Porthos wasn't new to late night patrol. He'd served it more times than he could count. The simple misdemeanors that the streets witnessed were more than easy enough for him. The sight of his tunic and sword were unnerving to the drunken citizens (who never put up a fight with anyone with a proper weapon) and the Cardinal's Guards were never difficult to dispatch. It wasn't a terrible set-up. He was there less for enforcement and more for intimidation. On the whole, there were about seven little things to break up in the course of a night, and one actual crime.
For Porthos, the crime of the night happened a little after midnight.
As he patrolled through the poorer part of Paris, he heard the sound of fists and feet connecting with flesh. He poked his head into the two nearby bars and shouted an intimidating warning at the lazy inhabitants before he located the lonely alleyway that the sound was coming from.
"Cough it up, monsieur, and we'll leave."
A money mugging. The most common crime of the streets, it happened at least once a week.
"The money, monsieur!"
"Anyone with a book has money on them!" a second voice supplemented.
Of course. Even though he most certainly wasn't an intellectual, Porthos was able to connect the dots. Somebody had apparently made the mistake of reading while he took his stroll, and had gotten mugged for money that he didn't have.
Porthos drew his sword and entered the alleyway. "Enough!"
The four men started. They were sober and unarmed, with immensely stressed looks on their faces. Without drinks in their systems, the job of mugging innocent people was apparently an uncomfortable experience.
He let the light of the moon glint off his blade. It told them he was armed, and it looked good. "I believe that there's no money to be gained, monsieurs. On your way."
The men looked at him nervously, shifting on their feet and casting glances at their victim.
Porthos growled and stepped forward, snarling out "This is your only warning." They scattered, and he brandished his sword close to their faces as they passed. He didn't want a duel. He just wanted them out.
"Monsieur?" He hadn't heard a word from the victim, yet unless the men were speaking to an unconcious form, he had been awake. "Monsieur?"
Unable to see without a lantern, and unwilling to leave the victim alone to go get one, Porthos bent and reached. He came into contact with clothing, and pulled the man to his feet. "Come on. Out into the str—"
Feet stomped weakly on his boots and kicked at his shins, and he felt the figure in his arms begin to struggle.
"Monsieur, do not struggle," he snapped. But the man ignored him and fought harder, writhing and wriggling, trying to free himself. Porthos dragged his struggling load down the alley and into the street, where the candlelight from the bars was enough to see by.
The musketeer came face to face with a young—very young—man. He couldn't have been more than 19 years old. Dark hair (the same pitch black as his eyes) had at one point been pulled away from his face, most likely for the purposes of reading his book, but had fallen out and was now covered in dirt and blood from his beating. He was shaking violently and looked at Porthos with the look of a deer cornered by the bow.
"What is your name?" Porthos asked, trying to get the gruff sound out of his voice.
The young man squirmed, staring up at him in awe and horror.
"What is your name?"
Suddenly the young man burst into a flood of tears and choked out a mangled sentence. "Battuto…senza soldi…che cosa ho fatto?"
And Porthos realized in horror that he didn't understand a single word. And apparently the situation was mutual.